


Dangerous Curves & Divine Moves

by TaraSoleil



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is weirder, F/M, Genderswap, Lydia is helpful, M/M, Nogitsunes don't leave instruction manuals, Scott is weird, Stiles wakes up as a girl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-07-24 15:04:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16177544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraSoleil/pseuds/TaraSoleil
Summary: When Stiles wakes up as a girl, there's only one thing he can think to blame: the nogitsune. And that bastard didn't leave any instructions on how to turn him back to normal. Now Stiles is the only one freaking out, and Derek is being weird(er).





	1. And Now for Something Completely Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles wakes up to a phone call and a rather unexpected surprise.

1: And Now for Something Completely Different

Stiles just wanted to sleep. In the past few months he had been sacrificed to a tree of all things, nearly buried alive by an evil druid, lost the ability to read, been locked in a mental institution, possessed, helped kill or injure more people than he cared to count, and been threatened by a thousand-year-old fox spirit wearing his face. Yeah, he earned some extra sleep. Especially on a Sunday.

Yet there was his phone.

Ringing.

At the butt crack of dawn.

On a fucking Sunday.

“What?” he demanded, too sleepy to bother with pleasantries and too bleary-eyes to make out the name or photo on his phone’s screen.

“Oh, uh, sorry.” It was Scott. “I, uh, wanted to talk to Stiles.”

“Yeah, what do you want?”

“To talk to Stiles.” He enunciated each word precisely and with far more sarcasm than seemed possible for him at such an hour of the morning. A _Sunday_ morning, he reminded himself bitterly.

“Dude, it's too early for this. Just tell me what you want.”

“I just want to talk to Stiles. Put him on the phone.”

He stared down at the screen, giving it the withering look he would have thrown at his best friend if he were in the room and acting like such an ass. “Look, Scott, I’m happy you’re so stoked that I’m not dying or possessed anymore, but, seriously, dude, I just want to sleep for the next week and a half.”

There was a pause before Scott replied, sounding bewildered. “Stiles?”

“Yeah. What?”

“Hey, uh, would you do me a favor before you go back to sleep?” his friend said, his voice still thick with uncertainty. “Go check yourself out in the mirror real quick.”

“What the hell for?”

“I think you’ll know once you do it.”

Stiles cursed and hauled himself from the bed, shuffling to the bathroom. “So what exactly am I supposed to be looking for? Unholy shadows under my eyes? Horns? Triples sixes on my forehead?” he asked as he flicked the light on and saw the reflection gaping back at him. It was him. Yet it clearly wasn't. “A pair of breasts and long hair.”

“You’re a girl, aren’t you?” Scott asked, sounding in no way surprised.

“What the actual fuck?!” Stiles shouted, leaning in close to the mirror as if proximity to his image were the only issue. It was him. Same upturned nose. Same golden-brown eyes. Same moles scattered across his face and neck. He was the girl in the mirror. “Wait. Are you a girl, too?”

“No,” Scott said.

“Then why did you think I’d be one?”

“You sound like one,” he reasoned. “I thought I might have interrupted something when I called.”

“Why did you call me to begin with?” he questioned.

“I had a nightmare that you disappeared again and wanted to make sure you were okay,” Scott admitted, and Stiles swore he heard an apologetic shrug. “I guess being a girl counts as you being not okay.”

“Well, other than that, I’m fine. Not possessed or screaming myself awake or anything. But I’m a _girl_. Why the hell am I a girl?” he demanded, glaring at the curvy figure wearing his pajamas. The tee-shirt was massive on him now, yet the damned boobs were still obvious. There was no way anyone but a freaking blind man would overlook the alterations to every inch of him. “Dude, I cannot go to school like this. Oh, my god, my dad is going to freak out.”

“I really don't think anyone is going to freak out.”

“What? This is fucking insane!”

“Sorry, but it was hard for people to believe you were evil. I mean, Derek flat out said the nogitsune should have picked anyone but you as a host,” he said. “If that was impossible, then this is only highly unlikely. I think our threshold of weird shit is just really high after everything that’s happened.”

He was about to yell at him, demand he freak out just a little bit on his behalf when his words sunk in. “Wait, the nogitsune. That has to be it,” Stiles said, running back to his room and digging through the mound of papers on his desk. “They’re tricksters, right? It knew it was going down and decided to play one last trick.”

“Yeah, but we beat it.”

“Not really. We just trapped it, and it had weeks to play around with me. Maybe this was part of its weird, creepy plan all along.”

“I don’t know,” Scott hedged.

“Do you have a better idea?” he demanded, hating how his voice now went shrill when he was upset.

“Okay, no, I don’t have a freaking clue, but we can talk to Kira’s mom and Deaton later,” his friend suggested. “Derek knew about kitsunes, too, so we can ask him.”

Stiles groaned. “Yeah, great. Let’s just alert everyone to my identity crisis. What’s a little more mental anguish and public humiliation?”

“They kind of need to know what’s happened to you if they’re going to have any hope of helping us fix it.”

“Fine,” he spat, wishing he could just hide in his room until whatever this was went away. “Come over later. We’ll take the Jeep.”

“It’s a date,” Scott said, smile in his voice.

“Funny.”

“Come on, dude. Compared to what you were like as the nogitsune, you being a girl is not that scary.”

“Not for you maybe, but what if it’s permanent?”

“Then Lydia can take you shopping,” he offered. “She’ll love it.”

“That is just terrifying. Next time, you can be the girl.”

“I would look so stupid as a girl, dude,” he insisted. There was a heavy pause before he asked, “What do you look like, anyway?”

“Like me. As a girl,” he said curtly.

“And?”

“I’m fucking adorable. Is that what you want to hear?”

“I knew it,” he laughed.

“I hate you.” He stabbed at the little red circle to end the call, noting that even his nails had changed; normally bitten and cut down to the quick, they were longer now. Lydia would probably want to paint them. It was tempting to chew them down just to spite his girly self.

For very obvious reasons, Stiles couldn't get back to sleep. Despite the ungodly hour, he lay in his bed, staring alternately at his ceiling and at the breasts pushing against his shirt, willing his hands to stay by his sides and trying to understand exactly why all this was happening; he followed the timeline of events from that morning backwards, from the nogitsune to the door in his mind, their sacrifice and Jennifer's revenge on Deucalion, all the way back to Gerard. It always came back to an Argent, didn't it? First Derek got burned by one. Now it was Stiles's turn. He supposed being made into a girl was a lot better than having his family burned alive.

“Hey, kiddo,” his father called through the door. “You still in there?”

“Yeah,” he replied without thinking about how his voice had changed. Of course his father would hear it. Even if the man wasn't a damn good cop, he was hyperaware of any changes to his son after all that had happened in recent weeks.

“Who is that?” the man demanded, turning the knob and throwing the door wide. He stared, horrified and furious at the girl lying where his son ought to be. “What the hell?”

“Dad.”

Stiles didn't get the chance to say another word before the man was turning, fingers curling into fists as he marched away.

“Dad!” he called and chased after him. “I can’t really explain, but it’ll be okay!”

“No!” Noah shouted. “No. I've had to accept a lot of lunatic things recently -- werewolves and kanimas and my son possessed by evil spirits -- but I refuse to believe this.” He glared at the girl before him, his face contorting, the sum of his anger and confusion. All at once, he crumpled into a chair, quiet realization spilling from his mouth, “God, you look just like your mother.”

“Dad, I swear, we’re going to fix this,” he promised, though he truthfully had no idea where to start. The best and only idea he had was that it was somehow related to the spirit that had stolen his body and his face, twisted his words and his friends until it got what it wanted: chaos. It was trapped, but it was somehow still playing havoc on their lives. On _his_ life.

“Stiles?” The man sounded lost.

“Yeah, dad?”

“Get it fixed by tomorrow. You’ve already missed too much school.”

His mouth fell open. “Are you kidding me? Of all the things happening here, you’re worried about my attendance record? Seriously?”

“Change your name. Shave your head. I don't care what you need to do, but your butt will be at school Monday morning. Do you understand me,” he paused, as if the foreign words tasted strange on his tongue, “young lady?”

Stiles groaned. “Jesus, not you, too!”

“You even sound like Claudia,” he commented, a soft, nostalgic smile taking over his face. “Might not be so bad if you can't fix this.”

“Maybe not for you, but you know who would find it bad? _Stiles!_ Stiles would find it very, very bad!”

“Stiles needs to stop being jealous of his twin sister.”

“I hate all of you,” Stiles muttered and stomped back to his room, throwing himself into research. There had to be something about kitsunes doing things like this and ways to reverse it. _Immediately_. He was elbows deep in a stack of printouts when a knock sounded on his door.

“Hey, you decent?” Scott called.

“Just come in, you loser,” Stiles replied.

The door opened slowly, cautiously. Scott's head pushed through the gap with eyes shut tight. “You sure I'm not going to see anything I shouldn't?”

“Like me murdering you?”

“Dude, don't be a bitch.” He dared open his eyes only to have them grow round at the sight of his best friend transformed from a hyper, awkward boy into and equally hyper spaz of a girl. “Dude, you weren't lying.”

He stood, throwing his arms wide to show off the full extent of the changes. The curves were obvious even in his baggiest clothes. “Fucking adorable, right?”

“Not quite the words I would use, but yours are probably better and a lot less weird,” he admitted, still unable to look away.

“What were you going to say?” Stiles demanded, crossing his arms.

“You maybe shouldn't do that,” Scott warned.

Stiles stared down at the breasts being displayed even more prominently by the gesture and quickly dropped his arms, feeling his face heat with embarrassment. “Fine. So, what, you think I'm ugly as a girl?”

“What? No, dude, you’re freaking hot, and that's really not something I ever wanted to say about you. So can we please go talk to Kira's mom now before either of us needs serious counseling?”

“Too late,” Stiles scoffed but followed him out to the Jeep.

The drive was awkward, more than he ever thought he and Scott could be. Even after the evil copy of himself had killed Allison, Scott had not been this weird. His eyes kept drifting sideways to watch Stiles, mouth falling open as if in awe. Realizing it was a strange thing to do, he would tear his eyes away, only to look again a moment later.

“Stop staring.”

Scott blinked and jerked his head in the opposite direction. “Sorry. It’s just, well, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m hella pretty. All the boys are gonna be all up on this, blah, blah,” he scoffed. “It’s moments like this that make me supremely grateful Jackson moved to another country. Can you imagine what an asshole he would be about this?”

“I think he’d be trying to pick you up, man.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious! You’re that hot.”

“Hate you,” Stiles muttered and slumped down in the seat, hating that he couldn’t slouch quite as thoroughly as he used to. Stupid curves. He cursed his luck all the way to Kira’s house, cursed Scott for all that staring. Kira was no better, and he cursed her mentally, too. He would have cursed Kira’s mom, but the woman was a nine-hundred-year-old fox, who wielded a katana like the pro she was. A woman like that could stare all she wanted.

After what felt like an hour of being studied and prodded, Noshiko finally spoke. Her words didn’t help. “This is rather unusual.”

“By unusual do you mean ‘totally average and super easy to fix’?” Stiles asked.

“Nothing to do with a nogitsune is ever average or easy to fix,” she reminded him, her voice chiding. “You of all people should know this.” She circled him again, her eye calculating and face unreadable.

“Kira, Scott, look with your real eyes, tell me what you see,” she instructed.

Stiles always hated watching his friends’ eyes begin to glow. It hit on some deep, primal terror that came straight from his lizard brain; it made him think of all the scary things; the fear of the unknown; the noises in the night; the dark space under his bed and darker space in his soul. To have those eyes focused so intently on him was unnerving at best, panic-inducing at worst. Even as he talked himself down, he could feel the anxiety rising.

“I see Stiles!” Kira exclaimed, cutting through his panic like a knife. Her hand reached out to touch his shoulder, aiming too high and curling around empty air. She blinked, eyes returning to their reassuring brown, and she frowned to see herself gripping nothing. “I don’t understand.”

“A kitsune can create powerful illusions. You experienced that yourself at the school.”

Kira’s hand slid across one of the multiple wounds she had suffered that night; all of them tricks, yet all had seemed as if they were real. Just like this body felt real.

Scott copied her gestures, first massaging an injury he hadn’t actually sustained then reaching for his friend’s shoulder. “I see it. I swear I’m touching it, but I can’t feel a thing.”

“That is the nogitsune. It’s affecting you still,” Noshiko said. “This girl is an illusion.”

“How do we break it?” Stiles demanded. “Last time, we just had to keep walking.”

“There’s always a way,” Noshiko said. “It’s just a matter of finding out what the nogitsune wants.”

“For me to suffer, obviously.”

“In the old stories,” she intoned, ignoring his self-pity, “a kitsune would transform itself into a beautiful woman for one of two reasons. Either to thank a man for an act of generosity or to punish a man with humiliation.”

“So clearly, I’m being humiliated,” he groaned and fell onto the couch.

“You are mistaken, Stiles. You are the kitsune in this scenario. You are the beautiful woman, so you need to find the man you’re intended to ensnare.”

“What?” he gaped.

She held her hands out, whether in peace or surrender he wasn’t sure. “You asked for my opinion. That is what I think is happening.”

He stared at her, hardly believing his ears, but it was Scott that voiced his consternation. “So you think the only way to break the illusion is for Stiles to _seduce_ someone? Seriously?”

“Yes. Given his current appearance, that shouldn’t be difficult.”

Scott considered him for a moment before he shook his head. “I am so not volunteering for that. I don’t care how hot you are.”


	2. A Little Help from Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek is weird, Lydia is helpful, and Stiles has some horrible realizations.

2: A Little Help from Friends  
  
Following an absolutely pointless meeting with Deaton, Stiles wallowed. He wallowed hard. The man was a freaking modern day Druid, the people that, at least according to Gerard, had helped turn Lycaon back into something resembling human after a vengeful Zeus turned him into a wolf. Stiles had to laugh that he was both taking the word of that psychopath as gospel and also believing that ancient myths were even remotely plausible.

Glancing down at his own altered body, the idea that a woman could turn into a tree or a cow seemed considerably less farfetched than it once had.

Scott offered his shoulder a consoling pat. “Let’s go talk to Derek.”

Stiles looked to his friend. “Do we have to? He’ll make murder eyes at me, and his eyebrows will do that thing.” He tried to demonstrate the motion with his own eyebrows, but only got a snort of laughter in reply. “Oh, shut up. You’re bonded with your werewolfitude; he’s like your little wolf brother. He freaking hates me. He threatened to rip my throat out. _With his teeth_.”

“And I’m sure you did absolutely nothing to provoke that,” Scott replied.

“What? I was perfectly awesome in every way while he bled all over my Jeep,” he insisted, trailing after him through the partially converted factory. The place just screamed ‘murder scene’, and Stiles knew murder scenes. He had been stealing looks at his father’s police files since before he was old enough to read. He, subsequently, spent more time with the school psychologist than the rest of his classmates combined after recreating the more interesting photos with his crayons during free drawing time in kindergarten. His parents had not been amused.

“I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ when this ends badly,” he informed the alpha.

“Okay, fine,” Scott muttered dismissively and knocked on the door. The sound echoed through Derek’s barely furnished loft, growing and amplifying, making Stiles’s panic ratchet up by at least six points. “Dude, I can smell your anxiety. Calm down.”

“No, I earned this anxiety. It’s mine, and I’m not letting go of it.”

Whatever his reply might have been got lost in the door rolling open with a harsh, grating noise. It was painful even to his normal, human ears, and he flinched away from it. When he opened his eyes, Derek was there, a hulking figure in the doorway. Normally, he and Derek stood nearly the same height, but he seemed too tall now, too wide, too everything.

“Scott.” Even as Derek nodded his head in greeting, his eyes were sliding off him to look at Stiles. His eyebrows didn’t do that thing. Instead, they knit together as the werewolf considered him with intimidating intensity. This went beyond staring. His eyes were digging deep, stripping him bare. He said nothing, just stood, eyes boring into him. His face seemed to tighten and when he finally spoke he sounded angry. “You smell like Stiles. ”

“Well, I am wearing his clothes,” he offered with all his available sarcasm.

“Not just the clothes. Everything about you reeks of Stiles,” he said, stepping closer, towering over him like he was trying to frighten this strange new girl away. It was kind of working. “What? Did you sleep with him?”

Stiles turned to Scott intent on asking what the fuck Derek had been smoking when he felt the man touch his face. His thumb and forefinger clamped on his chin in the gentlest touch Derek had ever used on him. Stiles didn’t fight as Derek directed his chin farther to one side, exposing the skin of his cheek, throat, neck. Exposing his moles.

“That’s not possible,” Derek muttered, eyes glowing a steely blue.

The moment he recognized the illusion, the man’s hand flew from him, and he took a hasty step away, the reality too disturbing even for him. When a big, bad werewolf was frightened, you had to know things weren’t looking good.

“You are Stiles,” he breathed, sounding so much more shocked and horrified than anyone else had so far. “How the hell is this girl Stiles?”

“We’ve kind of got an idea of what’s going on,” Scott admitted. “But we don’t really know how to fix it.”

Derek looked between them, eyes back to their usual green. “So why did you come to me?”

“Why do you think?” Stiles demanded. “We need help! _I_ need help. I’m a freaking damsel in distress over here.”

“And you think I’m your knight in shining armor?” he questioned, his eyebrows doing that thing.

“Not in that shirt, you’re not,” he commented. It was just bluster because, really, the man looked damn good in that shirt. It showed off all manner of muscle definition that shouldn’t be visible through fabric. He tried not to look, but the man’s chest was basically his entire field of vision now that he had lost about six inches in height.

“You don’t get to judge me. Not looking like that,” he replied darkly as a finger reached out and flicked the collar of his plaid shirt. It was a shirt that was comfortably oversized when he was himself but now swallowed him, made him look like a child or, apparently, a girl wearing her boyfriend’s clothes.

Stiles tore his eyes off the asshole and turned to his friend. “I told you so.”

“It hasn’t ended badly,” Scott insisted.

“No, you’re totally right. It can’t end when it never actually starts. Did you not notice your little werewolf pal being completely unhelpful? How about the fact that we’re still _outside_ the apartment? You can try to talk to him without me. Fat lot of good that will do.” He glared his annoyance at Derek and stalked away, wishing he could punch him without breaking his fist. Hell, he probably couldn’t even reach the man’s face anymore. Stupid girly height.

He felt the defeated sigh that preceded Derek calling him back. “Stiles, come in. I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Tell it to Scott,” he snarled and kept walking.

If Derek or Scott said anything else, he didn’t hear. Even if he had heard, he wouldn’t have turned around. The last thing he wanted right now was to be in close proximity to Derek Hale and not for the reasons he would normally have rattled off. His desire to distance himself from the man had nothing to do with his murder eyes, condescending eyebrows, or aura of ‘I’m going to slap you’ that he had been projecting in Stiles’s general direction from nearly the first moment they met. No, this was something new. The past few minutes in his presence were enough to teach Stiles something very disturbing about his new body. It didn’t just look like a girl. It reacted like one, too. Reacted very strongly to attractive men. Even if they were terrifying, asshole werewolves.

He needed this problem solved immediately, or he needed to stay far away from one tall, dark, and brooding werewolf. Actually, that ‘or’ should probably be an ‘and.’ Yeah, he needed the problem solved, _and_ he needed to stay away from sexy former-alphas. Sadly, he knew the former was unlikely to happen in the next sixteen hours, and his father had made it quite clear where he stood on Stiles calling in sick to school until he was himself again.

His phone was in his hand before he could change his mind, his fingers flying across the screen to type out a message.

_Lydia, I need your special talents. ASAP._

The reply came back quickly, though not as quickly as he would like. _I am not helping you find a dead body._

_No, your OTHER special talents_   
_The girly kinds_   
_With the shopping and the clothes_

_Why?_

_You’re not going to believe me unless you see it for yourself_   
_Can you meet me at the mall?_

_Sure. When?_

_Like five minutes ago_

_See you in the men’s department of Macy’s in twenty minutes. This had better be good._

_It’s worse_ , he texted and turned the key in the ignition.

He was standing by a display of clothes he knew wouldn’t fit him anymore when he heard her call his name.

“Stiles, what’s so important… Oh, this is new.” Her eyes raked over him as he turned to face her. She untucked his long hair from where he had it hiding under his shirt collar and consider him; the glint of mischief and intelligence in her eye frightened him more than he wanted to admit. “I’m not even going to ask the hows or whys of it. It’s Beacon Hills, right?”

“Yeah, it’s Beacon freaking Hills, and this kind of thing is so normal that my dad says I have to go to school no matter what,” he complained, “so I need clothes that fit all of … _this_.” He gestured to the hips and the breasts and the overall not-Stilesness of himself.

“No,” she said in that way that made him feel moronic. “What you need is a disguise.”

“I’m not Clark Kent. Why would I need a disguise?”

“Do you know what I see right now?” she asked, hooking an arm through his and dragging him through the store, away from the manly displays of khaki pants and polo shirts and into the bright and glittery realm of female clothes. “I see Stiles Stilinski as a girl.”

He groaned and pulled at his stupid long hair. “That’s what I’m trying to avoid.”

“Do you know what I _could_ see?” she asked, ignoring his whining as she plucked a dress off a nearby display and held it against him. “The hottest girl in school. Given the right outfit, you wouldn’t even recognize yourself. What do you say?”

He paused, considering her words. The idea of everyone recognizing him as himself was both humiliating and horrifying, but the dress was just that: a dress. It was a piece of clothing made very specifically for a girl, and, while he might look like one, Stiles was still a guy. “I don’t know.”

“This is why you called me, Stiles.”

He cursed and glowered but finally said, “Fine, make me pretty.”

“Trust me when I say you’re already there,” she assured him with absolute certainty. “You just need some fine tuning. Come on. Bras first. Tits like yours needs some support.”

Deftly, she swiped a measuring tape from beside the cash register and a handful of bras off a hook nearby, not even bothering to check the size or style. She pushed him through the fitting room door, locking it behind them, and then she stood, waiting.

“What are you doing? This is a naked place!” he hissed.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

He hugged his arms tightly around himself. “You haven’t seen mine.”

“Oh, just get on with it, Stiles. I need to know what I’m working with. I can’t tell anything when you’re dressed like a bum.” She made a grab for his shirt.

“I’m not dressed like a bum. I’m dressed like me.”

“No, you are dressed like _Stiles_ ,” she corrected him, tearing away the plaid overshirt Derek had insulted, “and, right now, you are not Stiles. Do you have a name yet? I need something to mutter under my breath as I roll my eyes when you inevitably do or say something stupid.”

“Hey!” he complained, as much about the insult as her stealing the tee-shirt over his head and leaving him exposed.

“Bigger than I thought,” she observed. “And I don’t know what you’re so indignant about. You might look like a girl -- a really hot girl, I’ll admit -- but you’re still a boy. Boys are prone to stupidity. It’s a fact you will soon learn now that you’re on my team.”

Whatever retort he had in mind was lost as his brain seized to a stop. All thought vanished because her hands were on him, on his chest, his breasts, moulding them in her tiny, pale hands. “I think we should get you a push-up bra. You’ve got a great rack. Let’s show it off.”

“Oh, my god! How are you not freaking out?” he demanded slapping her hands away and burying his breasts in the protection of his naked arms. “ _I’m_ freaking out. Even _Derek_ is freaking out!”

“Compared to everything else that’s happened in this town, you being a girl isn’t all that exciting.” She brandished the measuring tape at him. “Move. I need to measure.”

“What the hell for?”

“You do not want to learn the pain of a poorly fitted bra, Stiles. I will save you that much trauma.”

Slowly, he obeyed, removing his arms and letting her wrap the plastic tape around his chest three different ways, feeding the numbers into some formula in her head that only girls knew until she had a size for the things on his chest. Breasts. _His_ breasts. Breasts were weird. He loved them. When he had a dick, he had spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about them, dreaming about them. He even got to hold a pair once, and they were great -- everything he had imagined and more. But that was on girls. Well, on _other_ girls. To have them sticking out the front of his body was strange, unsettling. He was sure he was going to spill things on them, knock something over with them, brush against someone without meaning to.

“Here,” Lydia handed him a bra and watched as he worked to get into it, shaking her head at his ineptitude, and finally helping him.

That was when he noticed it, with the girl he had loved since third grade leaning against him, arms wrapped around his naked torso. He didn’t feel a thing. Not a hint of arousal. Nothing. Stiles didn’t like that. He liked it even less than realizing his new body reacted to attractive men, because it meant he was even further from being himself than he had thought possible. From the age of nine, he knew there was never going to be a time when he wouldn’t be in love with Lydia Martin. Not loving her was just impossible. Not loving her would mean that he was either dead or somehow so far from being Stiles Stilinski that he might as well have been dead.

“What’s the matter? Does it not fit?” she asked, completely unaware of the horrible realization he was experiencing.

“I have no idea,” he admitted.

“Trust me, you’ll know if it’s bad,” she assured him, snapping the tag off the bra and leaving him alone with his internal crisis.

He stared at himself in the ghastly flourescent light of the dressing room, studying the body in the mirror. Before, in his own bathroom, he had looked only enough to see that the reflection was himself. He had been too scared and too stubborn to look further. Scared for obvious reasons; stubborn because he was determined that they would get this shit fixed immediately even though he knew it was a fool’s hope. He looked now at the person reflected back at him. Shorter, rounder, softer. Everything was different. Except his face. While it, too, had a softness that it hadn't held since he was a child, he still looked like himself. Yet, when he was a boy, he was average at best. Not ugly, but also not attractive enough to get him much attention. Somehow those same features laid out in the exact same way became fucking stunning as a girl. That wasn’t just confusing. It was unfair. Why should girl Stiles get all the pretty?

“Bra’s paid for,” Lydia said through the door. “Put your shirt on and get out here. I saw a dress last week that was screaming for curves as dangerous as yours.”


	3. Sacrifices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles has to make some sacrifices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon the delay. I'm a bit off schedule this week.

3: Sacrifices

“Hands off face,” Lydia reminded him. Again. She had told him that five times in the last ten minutes, but he couldn’t help it. His skin felt weird -- too heavy, too tight, just wrong in general. How could it not when there was _makeup_ on it?

He wanted to complain, to wash it all off, to just be done with it. But that would be stupid, and he knew it. With all the crap she had slathered on his face, he had barely recognized himself in the mirror. Not even the moles could give him away now, where before they all but screamed his name with their presence. Unless someone knew who he was already, no one would look at him and see Stiles, not with the hair and the makeup, the dangerously low-cut shirt and jeans too tight to be legal. Lydia really had created a completely new identity for him.

He slumped in the passenger seat of her car, hating that he needed a disguise and wishing he could at least drive himself to school. Lydia had put a hard ‘no’ on that idea, insisting the Jeep was too much a part of his identity for him to be seen in it. Again, he had to agree; he loved that vehicle so much he had made a valiant effort to get it a photo into the yearbook. The baby blue Jeep was practically an icon at the school.

“What’s your name again?” she asked.

“Zelda.” It had been his maternal grandmother’s name and would have belonged to his sister if he ever had one. He refused to admit that he thought it was cool and continued to slouch petulantly.

“What are you doing in Beacon Hills?”

“Helping take care of my Uncle Noah while my cousin is in the hospital,” he answered, pausing to consider that lie. “Are you sure no one is going to check to see if that’s even true? Melissa isn’t the only parent that works at Beacon Memorial. I’m sure someone will ask about me.”

“In this town, a kid holed up in the hospital indefinitely really isn’t worth investigating.”

“Lame,” he muttered.

“Sad. But true. So where are you from?”

“Hill Valley,” he said, already bored with her interrogation. “And why Hill Valley? That’s too close. I know of at least three people who grew up there. Why not LA?”

She glanced at him, the curl of her lip implying he was mentally deficient. “Have you ever been to LA?”

“No.”

“Do you know anything about LA?”

“No.”

“Which is exactly why you’re not from LA. No one at Beacon Hills High is from LA. I doubt anyone has even seen it in person. It’s dazzling and far away, and people would ask questions you can’t hope to answer. The only exciting thing about Hill Valley is that broken clock tower. So no one will care, and, more importantly, no one will ask questions.”

“Fine,” he huffed.

She continued to quiz him for the rest of the drive, making sure he knew his lies well enough. He really didn’t think it mattered. Nobody paid him much attention. He was that spaz in the corner cracking jokes and making sarcastic comments, getting yelled at by Coach and threatened by the upperclassmen. To date, he had one shining moment of attention on the lacrosse field, which quickly soured when Gerard abducted him and beat the shit out of him to make a point to Scott. All this effort to build a disguise and a new identity was a waste of time, and he knew it.

Oh, how wrong he was.

The looks started before he even unbuckled his seatbelt. Eyes pointed his way, though why he couldn’t even begin to guess. New kids showed up fairly regularly at their school as families moved to and from Beacon Hills; the unusually high rate of wild animal attacks gave most parents ample reason to move their families elsewhere. Another new girl was hardly worth noticing.

Lydia offered a noise of surprise.

“Yeah, they need hobbies,” Stiles agreed.

“No, not them. I thought I saw Derek.”

“Doubt it,” he scoffed. “Asshole wasn’t being even remotely helpful. Just stood there making murder eyes at me.”

“Murder eyes,” she repeated, mouth pulling into a contemplative pout. “I’m not sure I’ve seen those. You’ll have to point them out next time.”

“If I’m not too busy being murdered, yeah, totally.”

Her laugh was a bit too derisive for his taste, but she was exiting the car before he could say anything. He followed, intent on telling her to keep her scathing laughter to herself, but his comments were interrupted by all the students looking at him. With his spastic mannerisms and inability to shut his mouth, Stiles was used to people looking at him funny. This was nothing like that. This was gawking, gaping, leering. This was in-no-way-subtle, in your face, mouths quite literally hanging open, _staring_.

“Told you. Hottest girl in school,” Lydia beamed.

“Is it too late to go with coke-bottle glasses and really thick sweaters?” he asked, shrinking away from the attention.

“Way too late. Come on. We need to get you signed up in the office.” She looped an arm through his and pulled him toward the other students with their awful, staring eyes. “Walk with confidence. Every girls hates you. And every straight guy wants to get in those skinny jeans. That’s what I call power.”

“It’s what I call the beginnings of a panic attack.” It wasn’t an exaggeration. The edges of his vision were growing blurry, and it was getting harder to breath.

“Do not freak out. You can do this,” she hugged his arm tighter. “There’s Scott.”

He followed her nod, wanting more than anything to latch onto his friend like the lifeline he was. Scott’s face, however, told him that wasn’t going to happen. He, like every other boy along the sidewalk, was gaping.

“Dude, are you drooling?” Stiles demanded.

“What? No!” Scott insisted, hurriedly running a hand over his mouth. “Jesus, Lydia, what did you do?”

“What I do best,” she chirped. “At least I was nice enough to warn you.”

“You did what?” Stiles asked, looking between them.

“I texted him your picture,” she said with a shrug. “It would have been majorly awkward for your best friend to get sprung because of how pretty you are now.”

“Oh, my god, Lydia!” Scott complained. “Dude, you know I wouldn’t.”

He punched him in the arm. “I’m fucking adorable, so I know you totally would.”

“When you’re done being twelve, can we please go get Zelda registered?” Lydia asked, not waiting for a reply before she started up the stairs with Scott and Stiles in tow.

“My mom faxed over the letter from the hospital last night,” Scott whispered.

“Yeah, and my dad faxed a fake police report about me before his shift started this morning,” he said. “I’m a little worried how eager he is to bend the rules to make Zelda a thing. Like I wasn’t good enough or something.” He scowled at the thought, knowing how much mischief he had gotten up to even before the supernatural was involved. His dad’s life hadn’t been easy with Stiles around. Maybe a daughter would have made less trouble for him after Claudia passed. Maybe having one now would make things less difficult. He really hoped he wouldn’t be stuck as a girl long enough to find out.

The official letters were enough to get Zelda temporarily enrolled pending transcripts from Hill Valley High. A student ID was created, and Stiles left the office with a copy of his cousin’s class schedule and a map of the school.

“Does it give anybody else pause how easy that was?” he questioned as he considered his photo on the new ID. “Anyone with a plausible story and some forged papers could walk in here and pose as a student. Really questioning our safety right now.”

“It's Beacon Hills. Are we really safe anywhere in this town?” Lydia said. Her perfectly manicured hand waved his concerns away. “Now try to look lost.”

“I am lost,” he muttered darkly. “Everyone is staring.”

“Not everyone,” Scott insisted. “Just half the student body.”

“The male half,” Lydia supplied with a wicked smile.

He tried to laugh it off, but their words hit too close to the truth. Even _Danny_ was watching him, seemingly awed by the new girl. Stiles remembered that moment when the world came to a stop because Erica sashayed into the lunchroom in that tiny skirt and impossibly tall heels. Just like everyone else, he had been astonished by her transformation, by how sensational she looked. The blonde had basked in that attention, desperate for it after being so long ignored. Stiles, by contrast, wanted to be ignored; the only attention he had ever craved was Lydia’s, and he had that now. He didn’t need or want boys turning to rake their eyes over his body, no matter how curvy it was now. He wanted to crawl inside his own comfortable clothes and just be Stiles again.

If the ogling was bad, the reaction when he sat in class was something else entirely.

By the second week of any given school year or semester, everyone generally had a seat that was theirs, even if one was never officially assigned by the teacher. Stiles knew where all the kids in his class sat, yet when he walked into the first period of the day, nearly every guy was standing, milling awkwardly and stealing glances toward the door. The moment he moved to sit at a desk, there was a loud scramble to claim the seats around him. It would have been hilarious if it were happening to anyone but him.

It was obvious by the look on his face that Scott had not anticipated that kind of reaction; he had been too far away to sit beside him as he normally would. Judging by her expression, Lydia had known precisely what would happen and chose not to get in the way. The hateful bitch.

“Hey,” the boy to his right said with a smirk.

“Nope,” Stiles said and moved to sit next to Scott. “This is going to suck.”

“At least you won’t have a hard time finding a guy, right?” he offered, always irritatingly optimistic.

“ _That_ guy?” he snorted. “Up until last summer, he was still bragging about how many pencils he could shove up his nose. I am so not letting that guy near my lady-bits.”

“Never use that phrase again.”

He grinned at the blush creeping up the boy’s neck. Whether Stiles was a guy or a girl, Scott never liked hearing him talk about anything related to sex, which always seemed kind of unfair when he was allowed to go on and on about how ‘good’ things were first with Allison and now with Kira. Painfully single Stiles never got to brag about anything.

Daring to look up from his notebook, he saw several boys who were far too eager to make things ‘good’ with him. Unfortunately for them, he wasn’t the new girl he seemed, and he knew that Todd got caught jerking it in the locker room in September, Jermaine had to go to the ER to get his sister’s Barbie taken out of his anus, Alex had a penis the size of a shrimp, and Jeff was just a dick. Yeah, no. If all he needed was a guy -- _any_ guy -- he still wouldn’t pick one from their year.

“So, you find your man, yet?” Lydia smiled. “I saw you eyeing your prospects.”

“You saw me being disgusted with the lack of options.”

“You need to pick one, though, right?” Kira asked. “I mean, my mom said you needed a guy.”

“Are we really sure it’s that generic?” Lydia questioned, brows pulling together as she contemplated the problem. “The nogitsune seemed pretty focused. Maybe it has a specific guy in mind.” She glanced at Scott.

“No,” he and Stiles replied together.

“Okay, then what about Derek? He helped fight the oni and Void Stiles. If I was aiming for humiliating revenge, it would be on one of the people that helped defeat my villainous plan and trapped me in a little triskele box. That’s a pretty short list once you take the girls off it. Isaac, who left town with Mr. Argent, Ethan, who is gay and ran away, Scott, and Derek. If you’re not going to do it, then that just leaves Derek.”

“Derek? Are you insane?” Stiles cried. “He would _murder_ me.”

“I doubt that,” she said with a knowing glint in her eye. “Well, if you’re not going to go for the obvious choice, then you better get flirting.”

“How?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just go stand by your locker. I promise, they’ll do all the hard work for you.”

“Yeah, but what am I supposed to _do_?” he demanded.

“When you look like that? Absolutely nothing.” She smiled at her handiwork. “Although, if you play with your necklace a little, it’ll draw their attention down to your magnificent cleavage.”

“Oh, god, stop talking about shit like that!” Scott complained, covering his ears and running to escape before she could say anything more.

Stiles went to his locker and switched out his books for the next class, trying not to look wistfully at the plaid shirt hanging inside. What he wouldn’t give to be able to throw it on and magically transform back into his normal self, to shed the hair hanging annoyingly in his face, the breasts making his back ache, the stares -- those creepy leers that the wearers probably thought of as ‘admiring glances’ but really just made his skin crawl. He shut the locker door with a bit more force than he intended, making the boy on the other side of it jump.

“Hey, you’re Zelda, right?”

Stiles eyed him, his stupid blond hair, dark eyes, and chest only half as cut as Derek’s. Objectively, he knew this guy was attractive in the same way he knew Scott was kind of attractive; that knowledge had never meant anything before, but now he felt a tight little knot down deep. It wasn’t much, certainly nothing like heat and tightness he had felt when looking at Derek, but it was more than enough to freak him out. At least with Derek that reaction made sense. The man was fucking gorgeous. Even as a dude, Stiles recognized that.

“Who are you?”

“Dustin, we don’t have any classes together. I just saw you standing over here and thought I’d introduce myself.” There was a smarmy curl in his voice that felt like a hand on his skin and made Stiles want to slap him, but he did as Lydia had said. He leaned on the lockers, nervous fingers toying with the long chain that hung down to his navel. The boy’s eye followed the movement down and didn’t bother travelling back up. “So, there’s a party this Friday. I thought you might be interested in going with me. You don’t have to call it a date if you don’t want, but I would _really_ like to take you.”

Parties. Dates. He’d almost forgotten such normal, teenage things were still happening amidst the chaos he and Scott were constantly experiencing. The last time he went to a party, Heather was stolen to be a human sacrifice. The time before that, Lydia poisoned everyone in attendance on her birthday. The time before that, Scott was experiencing his first full moon and trying to murder him. The Winter Formal probably counted as a party, and that ended with Lydia nearly bleeding out in the lacrosse field and him getting abducted by Peter. Stiles and parties didn’t get along.

But Stiles wasn’t Stiles anymore.

“Sounds,” he paused, forcing his face to look less like he wanted to vomit, “fun.”


	4. Risk & Reward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles forms a quasi-plan that no one (except maybe Lydia) approves of.

4: Risk & Reward

  
Fighting a wave of nausea at what he had just agreed to with Smarmy Dustin, he dropped his head onto the desk and groaned.

“Stikinski!”

“Yeah, Coach!” he said, sitting upright.

“Do you need McCall to take you to the nurse? Are you feeling all right?” the man asked, wide eyes filled with concern where they were normally filled with… well, Coach.

“I’m fine,” Stiles insisted. “Just, you know, worried about my cousin. Good old Stiles. Everybody loves him.”

The man shook his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Scott tried to hide his laugh in a cough and failed. Miserably.

‘Fuck you,’ he mouthed to his friend and tried to focus on the lesson. Really, he was just thinking about all the times he had sat without notice in this same seat while Coach ranted and raved just as he was doing now. He remembered the humiliating moment when he tried to pull a quarter from his pocket only to have a condom fly out instead. If that happened today, looking as he did now, he knew the reaction would be something completely different. That lesson came back to him. A game of chance. Risk versus reward. It was a game he was playing now with his very identity. The reward, he felt, was certainly worth the risk. What were a few hours of discomfort at a party or movie if it meant getting his body and self back? If it meant getting _Stiles_ back?

From that moment, Stiles became a Yes Man. Every offer of a date was accepted with a resounding, if completely feigned, enthusiasm. The response was virtually automatic, so much so that he looked up with surprise when a boy was talking to him, making arrangements for a date he had agreed to without actually hearing his name or where the date would be.

“Pick you up at eight. Movie starts at eight-thirty. You’re staying at Stilinski’s house, right?”

The idea of this guy knowing where he slept made him shudder, but he just smiled. “Yeah, with my uncle -- you know, the sheriff -- and all his guns.”

This boy, whose name he didn’t even know, laughed as if Stiles had just cracked the greatest joke ever told, his hand slipping from his own chest over to Stiles’ shoulder and down to his waist. They had _literally_ just met. What the fuck was that? He was half a second from punching the kid in the face when the boy’s smile dropped, his hand flew away as if Stiles had scalded him, and he was taking a step away.

“Uh, friend of yours?” the boy asked, looking over Stiles’ shoulder with unmistakable fear in his eyes.

Stiles turned to follow his gaze. He had been confused by the sudden change in posture, but he grew even more so when he saw what had caused it. Derek. He wasn’t in the hall or even technically on school grounds, but he was near enough that anyone could see his murder eyes. And those murder eyes were killing Stiles dead. If a glare could perform the three-fold death, that’s what those green eyes could be doing to Stiles right now.

“My cousin, Miguel, unfortunately,” he muttered, knowing Derek could hear him. “A real asshole most of the time.”

The boy narrowed his own eyes and stared hard through the window. “God, I wouldn’t want him at the dinner table. I think he’d stab everyone with the carving knife.”

“Too obvious,” Stiles countered. “He’d go for the ladle just to make things difficult for himself and more painful for everyone else.”

Stiles swore Derek’s mouth tilted up into an almost-smile at that.

“So… uh… about that movie tonight?”

“You want to cancel? I don’t think he’d actually murder you,” he assured the boy, though he wasn’t really sure if it was true or not.

“No, we’re cool,” the guy said with a slight quaver of fear in his voice. His next question only confirmed how scared of Derek he really was. “Your cousin isn't going to follow us there, is he?”

“I make no promises. Miguel is as unpredictable as the nervous park squirrel.”

He hesitated, eyes darting between Derek’s Murder Eyes, which had officially earned the capital letters as of this moment, and the swell of Stiles's breasts exposed by the shirt Lydia had picked for him. His lust was more powerful than his fear, apparently. “Yeah, no. It’s cool. I’ll see you at eight.”

Movie Boy left as the bell signaled the start of the next period. Stiles stayed by the window as students hurried to their classrooms and the hallway cleared; he had a free period that would normally have been spent researching whatever monster was heading their way, but he knew what monster was on its way: Derek.

“What the hell was that?” the man demanded, voice practically a growl.

Stiles sighed, turned to glare at him. Derek's Murder Eyes widened and seemed to shift from furious to uncertain as he took in all that Lydia had done to him, lingering a bit too long on the cleavage prominently displayed by the low-cut top and push-up bra. At least he had the courtesy to drag his eyes back up to Stiles’s face.

“What the hell are you wearing?” he asked.

“Clothes. Not very comfortable ones, either. It really sucks being a girl. Bras poke,” he complained and argued the underwire away from his armpit.

“Why not just be yourself?”

“Uh, have you met me?” Stiles scoffed. “I’m awkward and don’t know when to shut up. No guy is going to want to get with that.”

“You’d be surprised,” Derek commented almost too softly to hear, then louder he said, “So that’s the plan? Find a guy, hook up, hope it works?”

He sounded almost angry, which pissed Stiles off. For how often he and Scott had saved Derek, the man ought to have provided some small measure of assistance. Instead, all he offered was more of the same, glared threats and sullen menace. Honestly, Stiles wasn’t sure what the man brought to the table half the time, aside from brute strength. And a really pretty face.

Damn, was his face pretty.

And he smelled really good.

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek hard. It was the only way he could keep his mind from moving away from where he needed to be and into quasi-traumatizing scenarios that involved him and Derek and very little clothing. He needed to keep himself in the now, where Derek was being judgmental and Stiles was understandably irate. With that in mind, he snapped, “You know, I didn’t hear you offering a better option when I came looking for help yesterday. If you have a better idea, lay it on me. Tell me your great plan to fix this.” He crossed his arms defiantly, noting with smug satisfaction the way Derek’s eyes dropped momentarily to watch the way the motion pushed his breasts higher.

Derek lurched forward, leaning closer, breathing on his neck as if he actually intended to rip Stiles’s throat out with his teeth as he threatened to so many months ago. The man pulled back as he ran a shaking hand through his hair and swore under his breath. “No, Stiles, I don’t have a better plan, but I know this one is bad.”

“Yeah, well, my body, my choice, and all that jazz.”

“Is it? Is _this_ really what you want?” He offered a vague and disapproving gesture toward him.

“Of course not! This fucking sucks,” he laughed, amazed he even needed to say it. “But the alternative is having everyone stare at the boy who suddenly grew a pair of double-Ds and vagina over the weekend. Maybe I’m crazy, but that’s not really something I want the name Stiles Stilinski to be known for. Plus, I imagine government agencies and men in black suits would show up to haul me to some secret facility in Utah where no one would hear me scream.” He shuddered at the thought.

“I wouldn’t let them,” Derek promised.

“Aw, see, you are my knight in shining armor.” He offered a sarcastic smile and batted his mascara-coated lashes at him. “You wanna go out sometime?”

“From what I heard, your schedule is pretty full. I don’t think you could squeeze me in.” There was something in his tone; Stiles wasn’t sure if it was bitterness or disgust. Probably disgust.

“Hey, I gotta do what I gotta do. I'm tired of being a girl, and I’ve only been Zelda for a day and a half,” he said, poking the man in one of his divine pectorals. “If that means letting one of these morons try to drive these dangerous curves, then I’ll do it, dammit. Besides, free food.”

Derek actually snorted, his Murder Eyes softening for a moment. “Dangerous curves? Really?”

“Lydia's words, not mine. They are pretty accurate. You have to admit.” A smirk pulled at his mouth as Derek's eyes dropped once again, following the serpentine lines of his body. Whether the man admitted it or not, he thought Zelda was hot.

“Be careful.”

“Melissa’s hooking me up with a kick-ass taser wand the Argents gave her. I could fend off a demonic ninja single-handed.” He grinned proudly.

“What about a horny teenager like that one who wouldn’t take his eyes of your chest?” Derek questioned.

“I will not hesitate to kick him in the balls,” he assured him. “I’m a girl now. I have no sympathy.”

“No. You really don’t.” He turned and left Stiles standing alone and confused and more than a little aroused. Stupid werewolf and his perfect face.

Stiles would have loved to forget the whole awkward encounter, but Lydia found out. She had heard about it from some guy in her advanced math class, who heard it from some other guy in his English class, who got it from someone else in some other class. He was amazed how many students knew about his conversation with ‘Miguel’, especially considering that not one of those people talking about it had been in the hall with them. He missed his anonymity. No one ever gave a damn about Stiles's business, but it appeared there were innumerable boys who wanted to be up in Zelda’s. He was actually beginning to get a vague understanding of why Jackson had been such ass for most of his post-pubescent life. If Stiles had grown up this pretty with this many people caring about who he hung out with, he’d likely have developed an ego of equal proportion, too.

As it was, all he wanted to do was hide in his room and pretend nothing had changed. Unfortunately, his life wasn’t entirely his own anymore. His life now included Lydia Martin. and Lydia wanted information.

“So tell me about Miguel,” she smiled as she dropped an overnight bag onto his bed.

Once upon a time, the sight of this girl in his room with a bag full of clothes and makeup would have thrilled him because it would have meant she was staying the night in his room. Seeing it now just made him cringe because he knew everything in that bag was for him.

“I hear,” the girl said with a mischievous grin, “that Miguel is unbelievably gorgeous. Fairly tall. Dark hair. Greenish eyes. Wide shoulders. Jeans so tight they’re probably illegal in some states. He sounds vaguely familiar.”

“Shut up, you know who it is,” Stiles spat and threw a pillow at her.

“I was right when I thought I saw Derek, wasn’t I? I knew it. What was that you were saying about him being an asshole?”

“And he still is one. He just stood there glaring at… whatever his name is… Movie Boy,” he insisted.

“And after Movie Boy went to class?”

“More glaring, disapproval of my life choices, and yet more glaring.”

She shook her head and started pulling things from her bag, setting them on the bed between them. “Well, if you’re going to keep being a stubborn idiot, then we need to get you ready. For your date, I have two options. I know which I would pick, but you’re going to be the one wearing it. Option one—“ she held up a dress so miniscule, he would swear on a Bible that it had come from the children’s department “—and Option two—“ she presented a tiny tank top dripping in sequins to the point of being blinding.

“How about neither?”

She rolled her eyes and threw the tank top at him. “Just put it on.”

“It’s hideous.”

“In the low light of a movie theater, it will be perfect. It’ll catch the light, and he won’t be able to look away from your tits,” she insisted. “Now hurry up. I still have to do your hair and makeup.”

“What the hell for? If the light is going to be low enough to make this look decent then he won't even notice my hair,” he complained as he wrestled the shirt on.

It took him a moment to notice that Lydia wasn’t rolling her eyes at him or unpacking more supplies from her bag. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, dabbing her eyes with her shirtsleeve.

“Lydia?”

“I haven't had anyone to do this with since Allison and Scott broke up,” the girl said quietly. “Please just let me have this, okay?”

He nodded mutely.

“Thank you,” she sniffed and gave him a watery smile. “That shirt looks good on you.”

“It’s been pointed out just how hot I am now, so I think just about anything would look good on me.”

That watery smile turned wicked. “That is exactly the attitude I was looking for.”

“Why?” he demanded, suddenly convinced that Lydia’s tears had been a ploy, that she had played on his sympathy to twist him into doing what she wanted. He had underestimated her evil quotient. She was at least seventy percent evil.

“Because if you’ve got that attitude, it means you have the confidence to pull this off.” She plucked what looked rather like a postage stamp from the bag. It was certainly too small to qualify as clothing, at least in Stiles’s eyes. Holding it in his hands, he wasn’t sure if it was a skirt or some sort of hair accessory.

He looked between Lydia and the circle of cloth. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“It’s a miniskirt, Stiles. Put it on,” she ordered. “It’ll look hot. So hot you might even get some tonight.”

“With Movie Boy? I don’t think so.”

She looked at him a moment, face pulled tight and her confusion evident. “If you’re not trying to use him to turn back to normal, why agree to go out with him?”

Stiles shrugged. “Practice I guess.”

Again she offered a sad, slow shake of her head as if he were a poorly behaved dog. “Stubborn,” she sighed. “Just get dressed, Stiles. He’ll be here soon, and I haven’t even started your makeup yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fully intend updates every Monday & Wednesday, but life's been a bit wacky lately. And by wacky, I mean terrifying (like stomach biopsy levels of terrifying). I don't have any doctor's appointments in the next few weeks, so I should be able to get back to my old update pattern.


	5. Overprotective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the men in Stiles's life get a bit carried away.

5: Overprotective

  
“You’re not leaving the house like that.” Noah Stilinski made himself an immovable object in front of the door, arms crossed and face etched deep with disapproval. “Go change.”

“Lydia said—“

“Lydia isn’t your father. I am. And I’m not letting you leave the house dressed like that. Pants. Now,” he ordered.

“But he’s here,” Stiles whined.

“Then he should get his ass out of the car and ring the doorbell. That’s how I raised you; that’s how he should act, too.” The man refused to budge.

Stiles already didn’t want to go out on this stupid date. Free food wasn’t worth this much effort. And while getting his right body back might have been worth it, the idea of Movie Boy and his dad together in the same space terrified him. He just wanted to slip out the door and go. That clearly wasn’t going to happen.

He stomped into his room, slamming the door shut as he hadn’t since he was thirteen, startling Lydia. “Do you think I could climb out the window?”

“Not in those heels,” the girl said with a shake of her head. “Your dad living up to the stereotype?”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles agreed and threw the stupid, tiny skirt off. “I need pants.”

She considered his miniscule wardrobe, examining each item in turn. “Pass,” she repeated each time she slid each hanger to the side. “These will have to do. They’re not what I would have chosen, but they’re the best of your bad options.”

“Sounds like my life in general right now.”

“You have one good option. You just won’t take it.”

“Stop trying to hook me up with Derek. It isn’t going to happen.”

The tilt of her eyebrow and curl of her lip said enough.

“You didn’t see the way he tried to attack me today. It was all with the eyebrows and the Murder Eyes and there might even have been fangs,” he insisted. “He’s always so careful to only do it when we’re alone, but one day he’ll slip up. You’ll see. I’m totally right.”

“Whatever you say, Stiles. Oh,” she said, pointing skyward, “doorbell.”

He groaned. “Great. Dad probably has his shotgun on the coffee table.”

“It’s sweet. My parents barely noticed when I went on my first date, but your dad actually cares.” She hugged him. “Now, have fun. Be safe. Do you have a condom?”

“What? No!”

She rolled her eyes. “Always have a condom. Guys are stupid.” She dug into the bag and pulled a box free, handing him a single foil square and slipping the rest into his bedside table.

“I’m not going to need that many,” he hedged, stuffing the condom into his pocket. The last time he had held a condom in his hands it had been the one he had stolen from Heather's brother. He had been so eager and excited for that night to happen, to lose his virginity to a pretty girl he had known and trusted since kindergarten. He could fake a smile when accepting a date, but there was no fooling himself into thinking he wanted any of the guys even half as much as he had wanted Heather than night.

“Trust me. Once you find a guy that knows what he's doing, you're going to need them,” she assured him, heedless of his discomfort. “Now give me a spin around. Let me see the whole picture.”

Stiles scowled as he turned in a circle. “Happy?”

“Ridiculously. Well, I will be when you smile. Remember to always smile. Someone could be falling in love with your smile right now.”

“You're the only one here.”

She laughed. “The way you tell it, there's an eighty percent chance that Derek is outside right now.”

“Will you quit it with the me and Derek thing already?” he snarled, snatched up the purse with his taser wand, and stomped out the door.

Movie Boy was sitting, curled in on himself in a nearly fetal position opposite Stiles's dad. Between them was the coffee table and a shotgun. Noah looked beyond smug, leaning comfortably back in his armchair with the air of a man who had won a debate beyond the shadow of any doubt. Given how pale and queasy Movie Boy looked, he wasn't sure how much debate there had actually been. It looked as if his dad had simply threatened the kid's life and called it a day. Really, it was a wonder the boy was even still in the room. Stiles likely would have fled.

“Ah, there you are,” Noah said with a smile that dimmed slightly when he saw how deep the v of the shirt was. “That'll have to do, I guess.”

“You look really nice, too,” Stiles quipped sourly.

“You'd look nicer in a turtleneck.”

Stiles rolled his eyes as he moved to the door, Movie Boy following and giving Noah and his shotgun a very wide berth. It made little difference as his father invaded the boy's space and hissed at him, “You will bring her back here in the same condition by midnight. Understood?”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” the boy stammered, somehow going paler than he already was. He scrambled away from the sheriff and out the door, running to his car. After a pause, he sprinted around to the passenger side to open the door for Stiles. As with everything else in his life since Sunday, Stiles wanted desperately to laugh but couldn't quite manage it. It was unfair how funny this all was to everyone but Stiles. He was still scowling when Movie Boy got in and said quietly, “He's wrong, you know, about you looking better in a turtleneck. You'd look pretty no matter what you were wearing.”

“Even if I was wearing a comfy plaid shirt?”

His kind smile fell just a touch, proving that it had only been a line, not an honest statement, not like when Derek told him to simply be himself. Stiles pushed the thought away; the last thing he wanted on his mind right now was that asshole werewolf and his condescending eyebrows.

It might not have been what he wanted, but it seemed that's what he was going to get.

“Oh shit, your cousin is here,” Movie Boy muttered.

Stiles didn't have to look far to find the man, who was standing by concessions, glowering into a tub of popcorn in a way that might have made him smile if his timing wasn't so suspect. Derek might have moved out of his family's charred and condemned home, but he still retained his creepy loner status, barely leaving his loft during regular business hours and studiously avoiding human contact whenever possible. That he would choose this night to venture out to a movie was in no way coincidental. He didn't care what his dad's rules said or what Lydia claimed about a single data point; this was evidence enough for him.

“Seriously, first McCall, then your uncle, now your cousin,” Movie Boy breathed, as if terrified Derek could hear him. “They are scary overprotective.”

“They didn't used to be.”

“Maybe you just didn't notice,” he offered.

Derek chose that moment to look up from his popcorn, his face earnest and soft in a way Stiles had never seen it, and it made his heart do a strange little flutter in his chest. His new girly body had a heart defect. That's what he stubbornly told himself as he turned to Theater Three and away from Derek.

“Did Scott really give you the shovel talk?” he asked.

“From what I heard, he gave it to every guy who so much as looked at you today. I know the guy is best friends with your other cousin, but I told the dude he needs to lay off.”

“Yeah? How did that go?”

He puffed his chest out and grinned. “He totally crawled away, tail between his legs.”

Stiles only just managed to swallow his snort. Scott was an alpha. There was no way he would back down from a weak-ass bitch like this guy. He could just picture this lying little shit nearly pissing his pants when Scott turned on his werewolf instincts. Hell, Stiles had nearly wet himself first time, and Scott was his best friend. The only thing better would be if Derek had been the one to do it, not from any innate desire to have the former-alpha defending his honor, but just because the man was so much larger than Scott he was sure to garner a reaction equally as large. Now that was a mental picture that brought a smile to his face.

“Glad you're having a good time even with your crazy cousin hanging around,” the boy whispered against his ear.

“What?”

“You're smiling,” he pointed out, his fingers reaching across the darkness to trace the line of Stiles's bottom lip. It took all his willpower not to bite those invasive fingers off. The snarl he heard from the row behind them suggested that Derek was feeling the same way. Stiles was not going to argue with the results as the boy snatched his hand back and keep it firmly on his side of the armrest for the duration of the movie. As the credits began their show scroll across the screen and the lights came up, the boy was still frozen in his seat, fingers clamped in his knees with white knuckles.

“Hey, you want to go?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah, no. Good idea.” The muscles were strained in his neck as he stood, as if he were fighting to keep from turning his head. If he had, he would have seen a row of empty seats. The empty tub of popcorn might have indicated a hungry werewolf had been behind them, but it was hardly proof positive. The boy's wide, searching eyes found no further signs of Miguel, and he began to relax again at Stiles’ side. By the time they reached the lobby, it was as if Derek had never been there at all. He slid an arm over Stiles's narrow shoulders and smiled.

“It's not eleven yet. We have time to grab a bite,” he suggested.

“Burgers?” Stiles suggested, not because he wanted to prolong the agony that was this date but because he was always up for a free meal. Especially if it involved curly fries.

“Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

“Just let me step in here a minute,” he said, twisting out from under the boy's arm and diving into the ladies room.

He studied himself in the mirror a bit longer than was necessary. Maybe he was looking for some change in his appearance, some hint of masculinity that had been missing prior to the movie. Maybe he was hoping to waste enough time that his curfew wouldn't permit an extension of the date. While he would have loved to hide out a little longer, seven minutes seemed too long to still be in the restroom, so he found his way out to the lobby.

Movie Boy was nowhere in sight, so Stiles moved closer to the men's bathroom. He stood a moment, staring at the sign with more longing than it rightly deserved. That brief, three-letter word had been such a large part of his old life, yet he hadn't even noticed it. They were just letters on a door to him before. Now they were a symbol for all the things he might never have again. Before the idea could make him cry or scream, the door flew open and his date streaked past him, a blur of terrified eyes and wet pants, stinking like a urinal, and stumbling out through the door and into the night. Stiles watched him run, unable to hide his confusion until another figure exited that same bathroom.

Derek came to a stop at a respectful distance, hands in his pockets and wearing an expression that told him absolutely nothing about what the man was really thinking. It was maddening.

“What did you do?” Stiles demanded.

He offered a shrug. “Nothing.”

“Bitch, you live in an apartment that's three bullet casings and a chalk line away from being a murder scene. You've been staring us down all night. My date just ran from the bathroom smelling like a preschool pool party, so you either peed on him or you scared him enough that he pissed his own pants,” he said, closing the space between them just so he could poke the man in the chest. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

If his vacant expression was maddening, the slow, sly smile that pulled across his face was enough to send him to Eichen House again. “Maybe he just didn't make it in time.”

Stiles groaned and slapped him on the head. “Shut up and take me home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I said ‘shut up’,” Stiles reminded him.

The grin he offered was so much worse than any words that might have come out of his stupid, smug mouth.


	6. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone is both helpful and evil, and Stiles is just over it.

6: The Talk

Even though his shifts that week all started at six in the morning, the Sheriff was still awake and waiting for him at thirty minutes till midnight. Stiles looked at the lit porchlight and bright living room window and sighed. No, even as a girl, he was still causing his father grief. And it was only going to get worse, apparently.

“What are you doing?” Stiles demanded as he watched Derek unbuckle his seatbelt.

“Walking you to the door,” the man replied as if it were obvious.

“Like hell you are. My father arrested you!”

“I was exonerated,” Derek reminded him. “All charges dropped. That’s as good as never having been arrested at all.”

“Oh my god, do you really think he cares about that?” Stiles cried, scrambling to unbuckle himself and escape the SUV before the man made his way around the vehicle. It was pointless to even hope he could win that race; Derek was at his door before the belt had even finished retracting, opening it with that smug little smile that seemed to be his new default face after Murder Eyes.

“Such an asshole,” Stiles grumbled and stalked up the steps with Derek firmly by his side. He offered a sarcastic grin as he came to a stop by the door. “Okay, you happy now? I’m home. Now go away.”

His smile dropped as the man took another step and put himself unquestionably inside Stiles’s kinesphere. The man had a personal space bubble the size of Wyoming. He respected personal boundaries, but there he was taking a second step closer, leaning in, his face just inches away. Shit, the man was going to kill him, rip his throat out right there on his front porch. He flinched as he heard the sound of claws coming out. They sounded oddly like a doorknob turning.

“Now, I’m happy,” he said, the words barely a breath against his skin. It brought goosebumps up across his entire body and made him shiver.

He stood frozen, anticipating the pain of the attack, but nothing came. Daring to open his eyes, he saw the man strolling back to his car.

“Asshole!” Stiles shouted and stomped through the door, slamming it shut.

“Where is he?” Noah demanded, barrelling into the hallway with the shotgun in hand. “What did he do?”

“Not him. Derek. He’s an asshole.”

His father lowered the gun and pushed the curtain aside to watch the SUV backing out of their driveway. “You mind explaining to me why Derek Hale was driving you home and not the boy I spent ten minutes putting the fear of god into?”

“Derek made him piss his pants. I had no way to get home,” he sighed. “So am I grounded?”

“No, but I might be asking Derek over for dinner Sunday night,” he said with a smile. “Go to bed. It’s a school night.”

Stiles just grunted and trudged the path to his room, kicking off the heels and falling onto his bed. Almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, his phone was buzzing in his pocket. Cursing whoever had the nerve to text him at such an hour, he glared at the message. It was from Lydia.

_Remember: Do NOT sleep in your makeup!_

_Too_ tired

_Stiles, I mean it! You will thank me in the morning_

_I hate you all_

_XOXO_

Still _hate you. Just not as much as I hate everyone else_

_;)_

He didn’t want to smile back at the screen, but he did anyway. Lydia was his anchor through this whole ordeal, just as she had been when he sacrificed himself to find the nemeton. Without her, he wouldn’t have survived one hour as a girl. She was there in person and via text all day, encouraging him, prodding him, reminding him which bathroom to use. He loved her for it. It was the only way he loved her at all right now. His phone buzzed again, and he decided he needed to find another anchor because he actually hated Lydia.

_BTW a little birdy told me that you left the movie with your cousin Miguel. You better be ready to tell me about it in the morning. Sleep tight!_

“Fuck my life,” he groaned and rolled from the bed, knowing that Lydia had a girly superpower that would tell her whether or not Stiles followed her command and showered before bed. He worked fast, washing the important parts and keeping his hands very pointedly away from anything that would make this situation weirder than it already was, wrapping himself firmly in a fluffy towel and diving into his pajamas before he could think any thoughts about anything other than soap and cleanliness. He missed being a guy. He missed showers being something to look forward to, being a place where he could let his imagination go wild without worry of the mess he might be forced to clean up. He didn’t even want to think where Zelda’s imagination might go.

Really, he didn’t have to think. He knew exactly where it would go. To Derek.

He had been asked out by a dozen guys, had his lunch table invaded by half the seniors on the lacrosse team, and been approached by so many others who just wanted to say ‘hey’ and introduce themselves that he’d actually lost count. As a girl, he had his pick of the hottest males Beacon Hills High had to offer, and not one of them caused a reaction in him half as strong as Derek did. It honestly baffled him, because he knew Derek. He knew the man was basically just a walking, talking bad choice. As in every choice he made was bad. Plus he was an asshole.

“Why me?” he whined and wrapped himself up in his comforter, willing his body to treat the soft, plaid cotton as a cocoon and transform back into himself as he slept.

It didn’t work.

When Lydia came knocking the next morning, he was still Zelda with all her myriad of problems that Stiles never had to deal with.

“So,” the girl said with a wide smile. “Tell me what happened on your date.”

“Nothing. It was a waste of time,” he groaned and tried, rather pointlessly, to hide from her.

She ripped the blanket off his head. “Come on. We’ll be late if you don’t get up.”

“Don’t wanna. Too traumatized to go to school.”

“Stiles, don’t make me call Derek.”

“That isn’t even close to funny,” he complained but got out of bed just the same.

“He kept an eye on you and drove you home. It’s sweet,” she insisted as she worked the tangles from his hair. “Seriously, Stiles. Is a braid really that hard to manage? It would save us both so much time and pain in the morning.”

“Yes, a braid is too hard because I’m not a fucking girl. I don’t know how this shit works! Ow! You did that on purpose,” he groused and had his head yanked sideways a second time as she fought to brush through a knot of hair.

“This isn’t fun for me either, Stiles,” she insisted. “This is going to kill my manicure. Ooh, we should totally get manicures. Kira would love it. Malia would probably tolerate it. Girl time!”

“No,” he said flatly.

“Please.”

“No, I have too much to do. You do realize that I’m doing two sets of assignments, don’t you? Mine and Zelda’s. I can either go on these lame dates or spend time pretending to be a girl with you. I can’t do both.”

“Okay, fine. I still say that you could just get Derek to help you, and then you wouldn’t have to worry about anything but being yourself.”

“I’d have to worry about him murdering me,” he said. At her snort, he continued, “What? It’s true. It was just like last time. We were talking like normal, well-adjusted humans and then -- _boom_ \-- he was all up in my space, breathing down my neck like some creepy axe murderer.”

“Or maybe like some unsure guy trying to make a move,” she suggested.

His mouth hung open as he moved to distance himself from her, terrified her brand of crazy might be contagious. “What the hell are you even talking about right now?”

The girl took in one long, slow breath as she set the hairbrush down and turned to look at him. “Nothing, Stiles. Come on. We’re going to be late if you don’t hurry up.”

It took him a long moment to comply, but he inched slowly back within her reach without another word. Fear of her lunatic ideas wasn’t what kept him silent, it was contemplation of that lunatic idea. He knew that thought was ridiculous and completely false. He had nearly two years of evidence proving that Derek Hale did not like him, and a pair of double-Ds were not going to change that. Although, the man had let his eyes linger on his chest and study his curves a bit more than was necessary. That really didn’t mean anything other than Derek having a healthy appreciation for an attractive figure. Hell, Stiles appreciated Derek’s figure even before he turned into a girl. It didn’t mean he liked the guy, and Derek liking the way Stiles looked as a girl didn’t mean he suddenly wanted to get naked with him. Whatever game Derek was playing had nothing to do with him trying to make a move.

It took Stiles the rest of the week before he realized what Derek’s motivation truly was. Just like the nogitsune, that man was hell bent on ruining Stiles’s life.

He didn’t just appear without warning in the halls or the school parking lot, menacing any boy that dared to look at Siles. That would have been a level of weird he had come to expect from that loser. He didn’t just stalk Stiles’s Monday night date at the movies. No, he showed up at every single movie theater, miniature golf course, and restaurant where he and his date were going. While he never overtly threatened Stiles or his date, Derek managed to exude enough passive menace that it was impossible to focus on the task at hand, which was to smile and flirt and be girly. That took actual effort for him. With Derek smouldering dangerously in the background, he couldn’t do it.

What was worse, at least for Stiles, was that Derek sent two more of his dates running before they could drive him home, which left him in the passenger seat of Derek’s monstrous Toyota _two more times_ , getting walked to the front door of his house _two more times_ , having Derek lean into him _two more times_. Maybe it was Lydia’s influence, but the way he kept breaching Stiles’s space was starting to seem far less threatening.

By Friday, Stiles didn’t know what the hell was going on anymore. He knew Derek was an asshole for messing with his dates, but he was also kind of looking forward to seeing him there. Just a little bit. Going out as a girl was so awkward and made him so nervous, that seeing someone he knew, who knew who -- what -- he was, kind of made it more bearable. Even if the guy meant to sabotage his chances at turning back into himself, his presence had almost a bolstering effect on Stiles’s mood. Oddly, that made him angrier than the sabotage itself.

“Okay,” Lydia demanded, “what is with that face?”

“I’m pissed.”

“That's obvious, but if you have any hope of having fun tonight, you need to smile. Someone could be falling in love with your smile right now.” She offered him a winning example.

“I'm not looking to have someone fall in love with me,” he reminded her baldly.

She sighed in the same way she always did when she was about to explain a ridiculously advanced math problem. “Stiles, you need to stop thinking in such linear terms.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” he demanded, too frustrated by the sadistic turn his life had taken to deal with platitudes.

“Nothing the nogitsune did was ever straight forward,” she said. “We have to assume this is the same. You might think it's about getting laid, but there might be more to it.”

“So? What's your point?”

“Keep your mind and options open.”

Options. He had no options. He had Dustin, who was waving at him outside the front door, looking like everything he never wanted, but he would be good enough. He grinned as Stiles approached.

“You look…” Dustin breathed, not finishing the thought, though if his black eyes and the bulge straining his zipper were any indication, the final word would have been ‘fuckable’. Yep, smarmy as ever, but that was exactly what Stiles needed.

This was generally the moment when Derek would turn up and scare his date away. He needed to stop that happening. The minute the boy left him in the living room to go get some drinks, Stiles stalked the rooms, pushing through the crush and more than one groping couple. There was no sign of Derek anywhere, which meant he could go back to the living room and to Dustin. While that had been his entire plan for the evening, it actually sounded in no way appealing. Stiles needed a minute to build his calm and his courage before finding him again.

He stole a beer from the fridge and slid out the patio door, falling onto a bench in the garden and glaring at the cement gnome as it smiled jovially back at him. “What are you looking at? Haven’t you ever seen a traumatized teenager before?”

“Having fun?”

Stiles didn’t jump at the sound of the familiar voice. “Are you?”

“Not really,” Derek admitted. “The beer is shit.”

“Gets the job done, though, right?” he commented and downed the last of the can. “Be my hero and get me another one?”

“No, I’m really not in the mood to carry you home tonight.”

“You won’t be. That smarmy jackass will.” He shuddered at the thought.

Derek lowered himself down onto the bench, eyes watching him far too intently. “I don’t even need my heightened senses to see how much you hate that idea. Why him?”

“Because he offered.”

“A warm body. Is that really what you’re aiming for?”

“Having met both your psychotic ex-girlfriends, I can say with absolute conviction that you have no right to judge my life choices. Dustin is a douchebag, but I’m pretty sure he’s not going to set my house on fire or sacrifice me to a tree.”

Derek actually laughed. “You’re probably right, but that doesn’t mean he’s what you need.”

“Oh, is this the ‘Mr. Right versus Mr. Right Now’ talk?”

“Maybe it is.”

“And maybe you’ve forgotten what I really look like, and that a Mr. Right isn’t actually what I’m aiming for,” he growled, angry to be having this conversation twice in one night.

His eyes glowed in the twilight. “I see you just fine, Stiles.”

Stiles launched himself at him, slapping his hands over those anxiety-inducing eyes. “What the fuck is wrong with you? People will see.”

“Most of them are drunk or high,” Derek countered, wrapping his fingers around Stiles’s wrists and easily pulled his hands away. “If they do see, they’ll just shrug it off.” He sat with Stiles’s hands in his for a beat, sitting too close.

This was definitely not a good position to be in. The warmth of those hands was radiating up his arms. The heat of the well-muscled thigh pressing against his was making him acutely aware of his new lady-bits, of the tightness and fire deep in his belly that was quickly unfurling, spreading, making him want to climb into the man’s lap. Fuck, Derek was too attractive for his own good. Too attractive for Stiles’s good, that was certain.

“I,” he said, stopping to swallow in a vain attempt to bring moisture to his throat, “I have to get back inside.”

The werewolf made no move to stop him as he pulled his hands free and stood. Stiles moved back toward the noise of the house, turning and expecting Derek to be gone, but he was still there watching him with those unnerving blue eyes.

“There you are!” Dustin shouted across the kitchen, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him tight against his own body. The smell of cheap beer rolled off him with every nauseating breath; he had to have downed at least two overflowing cups while Stiles had been off hunting Derek.The beer apparently made him gropey.

 _Good_ , thought Stiles, _let’s get this shit over with_.

When the boy leaned in to kiss him, Stiles didn’t move away.

He had kissed a few girls. Okay, two girls. Three if he as allowed to count the CPR he performed on Cora. He knew what a decent kiss felt like, and this wasn’t decent. It was sloppy and rushed, Dustin’s tongue rolling around in his mouth, feeling more like a writhing slug than anything else. It was enough to make him want to vomit. He pushed the boy off his face and turned his head away. Dustin took that as encouragement to place that drunken mouth elsewhere, on his throat, neck, shoulder. Those attentions weren’t half bad.

“So fucking hot,” the boy groaned, rolling his hips against him. “Can I touch you?”

Stiles just nodded, not sure if words or sick would come out of his mouth if he tried to speak.

The boy’s hands were no more coordinated than his tongue, grabbing and fumbling across his breasts and up his skirt. Like the boy’s mouth on his skin, it was all rather lackluster; something was missing. His new lady-bits liked the attention well enough, but he was sure the motions could have been performed with more expertise. Without meaning to, he found himself wondering how skilled Derek might be at this, and he had to bite back a moan at the thought. He opened his eyes and saw the man watching them, Murder Eyes looking out from a face filled with disappointment. It doused what little arousal he felt.

“Dustin, stop,” Stiles said, pushing at his shoulders. “I have to go.”

“Yeah, good idea. Let’s get out of here.”

“No, you can stay. I’m leaving.” He spun and ran as fast at the stupid heels would allow, finding Lydia and making a break for it. Surprisingly, the girl didn’t ask any questions, just drove him home while he wiped the memories of that drunken mouth from his.

The silence of his room was worrisome after the noise of the party. Every sound, however small, was enough to make him jump. He half expected one of his numerous, smarmy admirers to climb from the shadows. He definitely expected Derek to appear. The idea of that man coming into his room thrilled him in a way it never had before, and he lay on his bed imagining what he might do, where his hands might roam. In the week he had spent trapped as a girl, Stiles had not once tried to touch himself. Even for a boy who got himself off multiple times a day, touching himself as a girl just seemed inexplicably wrong. Now, his hands moved on their own, ghosting over his skin, circling nipples and slipping into the tiny skirt. All with Derek in mind.

He had to bite his lip hard to keep from moaning as he came, his body shaking and lady-bits aching for more attention.

As he lay on his bed, shivering both from the aftermath of his orgasm and the sweat cooling on his skin, he started to think that Noshiko and Lydia had been right. This wasn’t about him. This was the nogitsune revenging itself on the man who had brought the means of his capture, who had fought his oni and won. This was about destroying Derek. Stiles just wished that didn’t leave him in the middle, desperate to have the man in his bed, in his mouth and body. He hoped this urgent need to have Derek went away once he was back to normal.

If he ever got back to normal.

Derek might appreciate that Stiles was hot as a girl, but the way he kept looking at him made him think the chances of the man being willing to touch his new body were pretty slim. No, his lady-bits might have it bad for the werewolf, but he was going to have to get his dick-fix somewhere else and hope it was good enough to break this stupid illusion. Thankfully, even with Derek’s cockblocking, Stiles had no shortage of admirers and offers for dates.

He just wished he actually liked the guys who were interested in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've just hit upon the sad realization that after I'm done posting this story, I have no complete works to share. I've spent the past two months binge-watching Supernatural to make up for 13 years of absence. Maybe now that I'm only two episodes away from being caught up, I can get back to being creative.


	7. Dance Partner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a week of bad dates followed by several free drinks results in a not so spur of the moment decision on Stiles's part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you notice a change in chapter count? Yep, two more chapters added to the total count.  
> Turns out when I did my last big 'final' edit and added content, I failed to keep track of the chapter numbers. You read that right. I got into college, and yet I can't even count properly.

7: Dance Partner  
  
“So my official rule is that no hot girl should ever have to pay for her own drinks,” Lydia informed him as they strut into the club. Well, Lydia strut. Stiles just sort of teetered with a severe lack of coordination and bare minimum of forward movement. He was actually more than a little proud of himself for being able to manage even that much. Two weeks in ankle-breaking heels had left him moderately capable when it came to such things. These, though, were villainously tall and pointed. They were a safety hazard. And also a potential murder weapon, which is the only reason he liked them

Lydia kept insisting he wear lethal heels every time they went out.

And shirts cut so low that his navel showed.

And skirts so short that basically the entire world was now his gynecologist.

A vixen is what she called him.

Naked. That’s what Stiles called it.

“Looks like you’ll have plenty of options,” Lydia shouted into his ear. She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and nodded toward the bar where not one, not two, but three guys lifted a glass in his direction as they leered.

“Can we find one that won’t make me sick to my stomach?” he called back.

She rolled her eyes and pointed. He followed her finger and scowled. Of course.

“Derek mother fucking Hale. Stop stalking me, you loser,” he snarled, knowing full well the man could hear him.

He hadn’t been looking at them, but at the sound of his name he glanced up.

“Ha! There! Murder Eyes,” Stiles shouted.

Lydia squinted across the club at Derek then looked back at Stiles, shaking her head as if he were a toddler mispronouncing his own name. “Oh, honey, no.”

“Those are totally patent pending Murder Eyes. I swear on my mother’s grave,” he insisted, trailing after her toward the bar. “Every single time he looks at me, it’s with that same look. Even before all this, so I know it’s not just because I had the audacity to ask him for help after saving his furry ass how many times? That’s right. You heard me. I saved your ass, and you won’t even try to help me. Asshole.” He glared in Derek’s general direction, though with the mass of bodies dancing in the space between them, he couldn’t actually see the man.

“Whenever you’re done being an idiot,” Lydia sighed. “Stand here. Look pretty. Good things will happen.”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder and pouted ever so slightly. Stiles wondered if he was supposed to do the same thing. His lips were full enough to pout. He just felt like a recalcitrant child when he did it, so he stuck to watching the people as they danced. Well, as they mated while fully clothed and standing upright. Rutting. That’s what this was, and he wasn’t impressed.

“From the man in blue,” the bartender said, depositing a glass in front of Stiles. “From the man in black.” Another. “From the man with the beard.” A third. “From the lady.” A fourth.

Eyes wide, he took in each of the forward individuals who had purchased him liquor. He had never had anyone buy him a drink. Not once. Not even at the gay club. Shit, being a girl was fucking awesome!

He grinned at Lydia, who smiled. “I know.”

“What do I do?”

“Drink. Get drunk. Have fun. Get laid, but be safe. Do you have condoms? Never trust him to,” she said sagely.

They had already had this discussion as she did his hair for his first date as a girl. She had handed him a box of condoms and stressed that he always had to carry at least one. He had been carrying that same one condom for two weeks. He held up the purse she had loaned him. “Three.”

“Ooh, ambitious. I like it,” she grinned, stealing one of his free drinks and sipping it as she considered the room. “I found mine.” She nodded toward a hot blond guy in a leather jacket, grinding his crotch against a girl as he looked at Lydia.

“Shit,” he cursed as she slid from the bar and moved to dance, leaving Stiles alone. He downed the rest of his drinks, hoping it would dull his senses enough to quiet the panic he was feeling. It didn’t work. His anxiety started building, but before it reached full panic attack proportions, there was a hand slipping up his arm.

“You look like you might like to dance.”

Stiles nodded, not even looking at whoever said it. Honestly, it made no difference. He wasn’t really into any of them. His lady-bits reacted in a general way to most attractive guys, but he only got truly aroused when one attractive man in particular was within visual range. He could look at these guys and know they were desirable, but appreciating that someone is hot and wanting that hotness all up in him were two very different things. He didn’t know any of the men flirting with him. He didn’t know them. He didn’t particularly like them. He certainly didn’t trust them. And that was what it came down to in the end. He needed someone he trusted, which was a very short list.

Still he danced because he liked to.

He danced because it made him happy.

He danced because if he closed his eyes and ignored the pain in his feet, he could almost pretend that he was himself again. Just Stiles. Flailing to the music like no one was watching. Because no one ever watched Stiles.

They watched him now, though.

They wanted him now.

He felt hands on sides, sliding down to his hips to pull him close to a warm, hard body. Those hands roamed up to his ribs, fingertips brushing, teasing the sides of his breasts. With his eyes closed, Stiles could pretend those hands belonged to anyone. Not a girl. They were too large to be a girl’s hands. They could be Derek’s. Large, warm, safe. All the things he associated with the man. He was dangerous, but he was safe.

At the feel of a mouth on his neck, his eyes flew open. He turned to see some stranger he didn’t know; a man, who, yes, was large and warm and even attractive, but Stiles didn’t know if he could trust him.

“Sorry, not interested,” he said, patting the man’s pec consolingly and moving away from him.

“Derek mother fucking Hale, I know you can hear me over this shitty music,” Stiles said as he moved through the dancing bodies. “Meet me at the door. You are taking me home.”

It took too long to reach the exit. Gropey, grabby, and probably very drunk hands kept trying to pull him into a dance or against a body. Stiles was not having that. He was just drunk enough from his free drinks to have the courage to do what needed doing and to be able to justify this decision if asked for a reason later on. When in doubt, blame it on the liquor. He finally reached the door and found Derek waiting, eyebrow raised in question.

“Don’t give me that look. Home. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, holding the door open.

“Bitch, I will zap you with my lightsaber.”

He smiled. “You’re keeping it once you turn back to normal, aren’t you?”

“You bet your ass I am! I’m finally the Jedi I was meant to be.” He sunk into the passenger seat, kicking off the vile heels and sighing happily. “Home, Jeeves.”

Derek just shook his head and pulled out of the parking lot, away from the noise and sweat and stink of the club. Lydia would be fine. She did this all the time, but she would probably want to know where he was. He dug his phone out of the bag.

_Left with Derek. I won’t do anything stupid_

She didn’t reply. If the way she looked that blond biker boy was any indication, she wouldn’t be checking her messages again until well after midnight. That must be nice. To be able to just turn off and dance with strangers. He didn’t know what that said about him that it was so hard for him to feel comfortable unless he knew a little bit about the person he was dancing with. That apparently applied to both literal and figurative dancing.

“You all right?” Derek asked.

He rolled his head to the side, looking at him. “Just fine. Had some lovely free drinks courtesy of who the hell knows.”

They were stopped at a red light where the street ended at the main road. Left would take him home. Right would take him to Derek’s. He craned his neck to see the left turn signal blinking on the instrument panel.

This is where he could blame the alcohol. He touched Derek’s arm. “No. Turn right.”

The man frowned at him, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. “Your house is to the left. There’s nothing to the right except…” Realization lit slowly across his face, and Stiles couldn’t tell what he thought about the barely subtle suggestion. “Are you sure?”

“You’re an asshole, but I trust you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

The light turned green, but they didn’t move. Derek gripped the wheel and stared at the instrument panel, at the light still blinking left. With one, deep, shaking breath, he touched the indicator and changed the blinking arrow. They went right.

From that turn, it was a short trip to Derek’s loft. Stiles drove there all the time during crises. He knew it was only ten minutes once they hit the main road, but with the anticipation of what was coming it felt like so much longer. Even when the building was in sight, the empty asphalt seemed to stretch out for miles ahead.

“We can turn around,” Derek offered.

“What? No. It’s fine. I'm just… you know.”

“Anxiety-ridden and hyperactive, yeah, I know.”

“That sounded really insulting. Did you know that?”

“And patent pending Murder Eyes isn’t?” he offered him one of his more condescending eyebrows.

“See, an asshole.”

“But you trust me, which I can’t help think is a little stupid after everything that’s happened.”

He scoffed. “Well, after everything that’s happened, I’ve seen you try to martyr yourself via mauling enough times to know that martyring yourself with sex should be a welcome alternative. Even if it’s crap, it’ll be better than having to push your own intestines back into place.”

“It won’t be crap.”

“Promise?”

“I guarantee,” he offered Stiles a look he hadn’t yet seen. Not Murder Eyes or condescending eyebrows or even ‘I’m going to slap you if you keep talking’. This was smug self-confidence. And damn did it look good on him. It sent a little thrill through him to see that smile pointed at him.

“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

“Shit, I hate waiting,” he grumbled. “Are we--”

“Stiles, I swear to god, I will turn this car around and let you spend the rest of your life as a woman.”

“Fine,” he huffed. “Oh, look, we’re here. About time. You drive slower than my grandmother. And she’s dead.” He argued his feet back into the hateful heels before throwing the door wide and climbing down from the car. “I miss the Camero. I couldn’t fall out of the Camero.”

Derek offered him a hand to keep him from toppling sideways. “Why did you let Lydia dress you like that?”

“Old habits. I’m used to just doing what she says,” he admitted. “Plus she guilt tripped me with talk of Allison and all the times she used to help her dress for her dates with Scott. How do you say ‘no’ after that?” He offered Derek a proud smile as he added, “Besides, I look fucking hot.”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” he said quickly. “I just think it’s weird when I know what you really look like.”

Warmth unfurled deep in his stomach. Derek thought he looked hot. He had kind of known it, but the man had never actually said it.

It was the heels that made him do it, not the sort-of compliment. The heels and the uneven pavement and the free drinks all colluded to make Stiles stumble into Derek’s side. And stay there. He was not snuggling. No. He had absolutely tripped. Derek should complain to the management about how dangerous the uneven sidewalks were because that was definitely the reason why he was now wedged up against the man.

“Are you always like this when you drink?” Derek asked.

“I don’t drink enough to know,” Stiles admitted. He was totally talking about how clumsy he was, not about how he was clinging to the man. “Do we need to experiment in the future to find out?”

“No, I’d rather not. You’re too young to drink this much.”

“Not that young.” He huffed.

“Let’s not talk about that,” Derek suggested.

“Why not?”

“Because you are sixteen -- _a minor_ \-- asking me -- _an adult_ \-- to sleep with you. That is illegal. Your father is the sheriff and chief of police in a small town with a very high mortality rate. No one would even blink an eye if I disappeared.” He said all this without a hint of emotion, like they were all simply facts he knew and had considered at great length. Stiles actually wondered if he had given this particular scenario thought. For how often he interfered with Stiles’s dates, he had to have considered the consequences, that Stiles still needed to find someone to get it on with to make his girliness go away. Derek had to realize that if he kept putting a stop to those dates, that would leave himself as the only option.

“Hey, were you cockblocking me on purpose?”

“You don’t have a cock to block,” Derek countered.

“You know what I mean,” Stiles growled. “Were you sabotaging my dates on purpose?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“You lurked and scared all those boys away because you wanted to do it. You wanted to be my knight in shining armor,” he laughed and shoved him. It was a poorly calculated decision; the man was a wall of muscle, so all Stiles managed to do was push himself off the man’s side, teeter and stumble far too close to the railing until Derek caught him. “See. You’re the good kind of asshole.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Are you asking if I’m going to talk while we get sexy together?”

That smug look lit on his face again. “I can promise you won’t be able to form a coherent sentence by the time we get to that.”

He didn’t mean to say it out loud, but the alcohol had him admitting, “Fuck, that was hot.”


	8. Tick Tock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is rhyming, admiration of abdominal muscles, and a goodly amount of sex.

8: TIck Tock

Stiles kicked the heels off the second he hit the landing inside of the loft. He was far too inebriated to be trusted in such things. Derek followed him in, rolling the door closed and standing close, radiating heat and anticipation but not touching him. He wanted Derek to touch him.

“Do you need to sober up?” Derek asked.

“What? No! God, no!” Stiles insisted. At the man’s questioning eyebrow, he admitted, “I’d like to have being drunk as an excuse if this gets weird either during or after.”

“That makes sense. It’s stupid, but it makes sense.”

“Fuck you, Derek. I am freaking out. I’ve been on the edge of a panic attack since I woke up with tits two weeks ago. I’d like to see you make intelligent choices if this was happening to you,” he cursed and raked a hand through his hair, turning and pointing an accusing finger at the man. “And before you get all condescending on me, remember that I’ve seen you in crisis situations and know for fact that your knee-jerk reactions are usually shit.”

Derek held his hands up in defeat. “Fair enough. No coffee.”

“Damn right, no coffee,” he said, throwing his purse onto the couch. “So what are we supposed to do now?”

“I thought you wanted to sleep with me.”

“Yes,” Stiles agreed a bit too quickly, so he raced to add, “Well, not so much _want_. I mean, I didn’t secretly dream of sexing you up before this happened. Don’t worry. I’m not going to get weird.”

“You’re already weird.”

“Asshole.”

He offered a placating smile that looked almost sad. “It’s fine, Stiles. I get it.”

“Good.” He nodded his head to emphasize just how good he thought it was, body swaying with the gesture, then continued to stand awkwardly in his tiny clubbing clothes and bare feet. “So what are we supposed to do now?”

Derek heaved a massive, frustrated sigh and pulled his shirt over his head. “Does this help?”

Wet heat filled his tiny, satin underwear at the sight of the man’s naked torso. “Yeah. That helps.”

“Thought it might,” he smirked and thumbed open the button of his jeans. It was a little strange how he kept his eyes locked with Stiles’s as he pulled at the zipper, as he pushed the denim down his thighs, as he stood in just his underwear.

Stiles released a small, strangled squeak.

“See,” he purred. “No coherent sentences.”

He wanted to protest, but when he opened his mouth all that came out was, “You’re-- With the-- Abs -- Asshole.”

“But you trust me?”

Stiles nodded with his lips pressed firmly together. He might trust Derek, but he definitely did not trust himself to speak right now.

“Good.”

It would be a lie to say that Stiles wasn’t scared. Derek was intimidating, even now when all but naked. He had to make a conscious effort not to back away when the man approached. At the first brush of his hand against Stiles’s bare shoulder, that effort went into keeping himself from pressing up against him.

His fingers slid down Stiles’ side to find the zipper of the thing Lydia laughably called a shirt. The fabric fell away, leaving his torso naked, exposed to the air, though not for long. Derek’s hands skated across his skin, covering him far better than the shirt had.

Stiles swore he could feel more than he could before, as if his body was compensating for the loss of his masculinity by making this female version more sensitive, more alert, every touch more intense. He could feel the very ridges of Derek’s fingerprints as he ran his fingers gently down his sides, as he stroked the smooth skin of his abdomen and the dips punctuating each of his ribs. It felt like such a girly thing to do, but he couldn’t stop his eyes fluttering closed. He leaned back against Derek as his hands traced the contours of his body. The man definitely knew how to handle dangerous curves. He desperately wanted those hands to keep going down, to play him like a cello, to pull music from him. He wanted his body to vibrate. He wanted to sing.

Always a contrary ass, Derek’s hands travelled up, ghosting across his stomach to cup his breasts. Stiles arched into his touch and tried not to moan. He mostly failed.

“Tell me what you like,” Derek prompted in a whisper against his ear, lips brushing the shell and breath stirring the hair Lydia had spent an hour arranging into curls. That quiet demand made this so much more intimate, like they were lovers and not antagonistic colleagues doing what was necessary. It made him shiver.

“How the hell would I know?” he breathed. “That’s nice, though. More of that.”

His hands complied, squeezing, teasing, massaging the flesh of his breasts, palming the nipples until goosebumps started to rise on his skin. He whined when one of Derek’s hands dipped down along his stomach. Its progress excruciatingly slow. It paused at the waistband of his skirt as if asking permission before slipping inside and tracing the lace edge of his underwear. From the first stroke of his fingers against the satin between his thighs, Stiles knew he had been an idiot. He should have gone to Derek first. Only Derek. Only ever Derek. Derek for life.

“Oh, fuck,” he whined, fingernails digging into the man’s forearm.

Derek’s mouth was too busy biting at his neck to respond. Stiles wasn’t going to complain. Not about his lips or teeth or tongue playing at the sensitive skin behind his ear. The man was an asshole, anyway, and likely wouldn’t have anything to say right now that would be worth hearing.

It was a little embarrassing how quickly he was shaking in Derek’s arms. His entire body was chasing that feeling, coiling ever tighter as he built toward climax. With a shudder, the tension was gone, released as he came. He would have fallen if Derek didn’t have his arm around him, holding him hard against his chest, his hips, his unmistakably eager dick. Stiles wanted to make a snarky comment about it, but he couldn’t. Not with Derek’s fingers still playing him. He had come already, and that should have been the end of it. It was when he was a guy. Clearly, that was not the case now, as he felt his body vibrating again. All the humiliating noises he had managed to bite back with his first orgasm, came tumbling from his mouth.

This time, he didn’t even try to hold himself up, just let Derek take his weight.

“Oh, fuck.”

“Good?” Derek asked, smug smile obvious in his voice.

Stiles wanted to knock him down off that conceited pedestal, but he absolutely couldn’t. The man was a fucking god. Literally. Instead, he pushed himself back against the hard ridge of Derek’s cock. “You thought so, too, huh?”

“Well, you are hot as a girl.”

“Thanks for noticing,” he grinned. “Can’t stand. I should lay down.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Derek admitted.

“I don't like that tone. It sounds like you’re scheming.”

“In the best possible way.”

An undignified yelp leapt from his mouth as Derek lifted him up in his arms. “Dude, warn a guy, would ya?”

Derek only laughed and carried him the short distance to the bed. Instead of laying Stiles down on it, he set him back on his feet, turning him until they were facing one another. Stiles liked the flush on the man’s skin and how dark his eyes were.

Derek tugged at the waistband of the miniscule skirt. “You don’t really need this, do you?”

“Nuh-uh. Nope. Superfluous skirt,” he agreed. Honestly, after his fingers worked such magic, Stiles likely would have agreed to kick a puppy if Derek had asked him to. He argued the bit of fabric off his hips, his movements nowhere near as sexy as Derek’s had been when he undressed.

“Or those,” Derek prompted.

“Gone.” Stiles shucked the blue satin down his legs and kicked the underwear away. Of course, now he was naked.

“Relax,” he sighed. “I can smell you panicking.”

“Well, I am naked. Being naked makes me nervous.”

Derek’s eyes raked over him. “No idea why.”

“That’s because you’re looking at _this_ and not at, you know, _me_. Zelda’s got it going on. Stiles not so much.”

Before he could move to cover himself, Derek’s eyes shifted from green to blue. “I wouldn’t say that.”

His hands flew to where his penis would be if he still had one. “Oh, my god! Stop that! Right now!”

He blinked and the glowing irises were gone. “Happy now?”

“That’s not allowed. No sneaking peeks at Stiles.”

“You are Stiles. You want me to keep my eyes closed? I can. I have a great sense of smell; I could probably make a good show of it just by following my nose,” he offered, lips tipped up in a sassy little smirk.

“Oh, shut up and get busy with me, dammit,” he ordered, grumbling under his breath, “Smartmouth, asshole.”

“My hearing is pretty good, too, you know,” Derek said, giving his shoulder just enough of a shove to send him falling backward onto the bed. “And I don’t think you know just how smart my mouth can be.”

Stiles pushed himself up on his elbows, intent on glaring and cursing the man. That was until he saw him sinking to his knees. Perhaps it was his lady-bits doing the thinking, but he was acutely aware of just how fucking sexy the man looked, of how sexy he always looked. He was fairly certain there was nothing Derek couldn’t make look sexy. He certainly knew how to make licking his lips sexy; eyes locked with his, tongue dipping down to moisten his bottom lip and draw it back up between his teeth. God, Stiles was done. Derek was ruining him. The way the man looked with his hands on Stiles’s knees, pushing his legs open, that was enough to have him wet himself. What little grey matter was still functioning gave up the ghost when the man pressed his lips to Stiles’s inner thigh, his stubble scratching, grating on the soft, sensitive skin.

He fell back onto the bed, air rushing from his lungs as Derek kissed his lower lips. “Yeah, I’m okay with that kind of smartmouth.”

“If you can still talk, it's not smart enough,” the man insisted, fingers curling around his hips and yanking him to the edge of the bed.

Stiles had been lucky enough to have sex all of once in his short life. Brief and to the point, it had been nothing like this. He was learning so much. Every guy should have to spend a few weeks as a girl just to learn how things should be when it came to sex because this was not brief. This was not to the point. This was life altering. This was heavens opening, light shining down, choirs of angels singing kind of sex. And the man’s dick was still in his fucking pants.

Derek had to hold Stiles’s hips down on the mattress to keep him still as his tongue wrecked him. Stiles tore the sheets from the bed, clawed at the headboard, knocked a lamp off the table, and Derek better not have any neighbors because there would _definitely_ be noise complaints. His body was quaking long before Derek pressed his fingers into him, curling and teasing until Stiles clenched around him and burst, shouting his release before collapsing back onto the bed.

“Done,” he panted. “So done.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Derek asked.

Stiles hauled himself up onto one elbow -- it was the best he could manage -- to glare at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“If you want me to, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t you dare! Get your cock inside me now! Your mouth and hands are fucking magic. Your dick must be like excalibur or something.” He groaned and flopped back onto the bed. “That sounded weird. You know what I mean. Cock. Magic. Need it.”

“As you wish,” he said.

“Don’t you _Princess Bride_ me. I ain’t nobody’s Buttercup,” he insisted, pointing lazily in Derek’s general direction. “I’m Batman, dammit.”

“Fine, you can be Batman,” Derek laughed, sliding up his body, hard muscles pressing into him in all the right places. “Who does that make me?”

“You can be my Catwoman. You’re sexy and scary and sneaky like a ninja. Totally a Catwoman.” He lazily stroked the hard line of the man’s jaw. “Got a heroic Superman jawline, though. We can make our own Justice League. You can be Superman. I’ll be Batman. Scott can be who the fuck cares because we’re having sex, and I should not be talking about him right now.”

Derek leaned into his touch. “I completely agree. You sure you don’t want me to stop.”

“I’ll tell the cops I seduced you with my wiles,” Stiles said, wrapping his legs around the man’s hips. He sniggered, “Stiles wiles.”

“Stop rhyming while I’m trying to sleep with you.”

“Tick tock, time for cock,” he grinned and dug his heels into Derek’s unfairly perfect ass, pulling him closer.

“I think I might actually murder you.”

“With your penis?” he asked hopefully. “I would make a rhyme of that, but I can’t think of one.”

“Why not? You’ve apparently got rhymes for everything else.”

“Too hot for your penis.”

Derek’s Murder Eyes narrowed. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not. You’re gorgeous, but your dirty sex talk is confusing me.”

“Do I need to roll us over and ride you cowgirl style for you to get the point?” Stiles demanded, all humor slipping away. He rolled his hips, knowing how close Derek was, in every sense of the word.

His breath hitched, and he buried his face in the bed beside Stiles’s shoulder. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Maybe later. After penis.”

“Seriously, your pillow talk is shit,” he groaned.

“Then shut me up with your penis,” he demanded, smile falling. “That came out wrong. I do not actually want your dick in my mouth.”

“Jesus, Stiles, shut up before I change my mind about sleeping with you.”

The rolling of his hips was Stiles’s way of saying ‘I’m calling your bullshit. I know you’re too far gone to stop now, so shut the fuck up and get that cock in me, bitch.’ He managed to keep himself from say any of it except maybe for the final word.

Derek’s reply of ‘You are so fucking right’ was heavily implied by the way the man ripped his underwear off without repositioning himself on the bed.

That eagerness had Stiles expecting a sharp thrust, one hard push until the man was buried deep inside him, but that wasn’t what Derek did. He held himself back, teasing Stiles’ sex just as his had with his fingers until he was whining, rolling his hips against the head of that cock, desperate for more. How the man had control enough after so much foreplay, he had no idea, but Derek kept touching, kept teasing. When his cock did finally enter him, it was just as careful and deliberate. His movements were almost too slow, dragging moans from his throat. His rhythm wasn’t difficult to match, and Stiles met each careful thrust with one of his own. He was so sensitive from Derek’s mouth and fingers, he was shaking within minutes, muscles coiling as another climax grew close. His body was racked with a pleasure so close to pain his moans came out as sobs. He didn’t want it to ever stop.

Through it all, Derek was carefully silent except for a few tightly controlled grunts. With Stiles’s release, he let loose a soft curse, enough to remind him that there was more to the man that just his penis and the hand grasping his hip. He opened his eyes and saw steely blue glowing at him in the dark.

“No peeking,” he said. Well, he tried to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I admit I'm not as happy as I could be with the tail end of this chapter, but if I think about/try to fix it any longer I'll just end up leaving this whole story in limbo.


	9. There's a First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which fantasies lead to panic. Lots of panic.

9: There's a First  
  
Two things Stiles learned that night:  
Derek snuggled. He snuggled hard.  
Derek also slept like the dead after sex.

Both of these newly-learned facts were working very much in Stiles’s favor because he was freaking out. His buzz had worn off hours ago. The afterglow of sex was long gone, too, leaving him in Derek’s bed. With Derek. Naked. And still a fucking girl. The heavy weight of the man draped over him was acting like compression therapy, holding him together when the panic began to build. It kept him from hyperventilating, which helped as he tried to figure out what he was meant to do now.

Sex was supposed to solve it. The fox had found its man. Therefore, he ought to be himself again, but those were quite obviously breasts sticking out the front of his chest.

That bastard nogitsune should have left written instructions. How the hell was he supposed to fix this without knowing how? Sex with Derek should have worked. Maybe they should just do it again. He was in no way opposed to that idea. That had been the single greatest experience of his life. Hands down. No lie. He wanted more of that sex. Lots more. In several different positions. And maybe with some kissing.

He frowned and looked at the face resting on his shoulder, the lips barely three inches from his. Derek hadn’t kissed him. Didn’t people usually kiss each other when they had sex? He thought they did. Was it odd that Derek didn’t? Maybe that was too intimate. Having sex and being intimate were two very different things; even Stiles with his lack of experience knew that much. He was painfully intimate with Scott. They knew everything there was to know about one another, but they had never slept together outside the literal sense. Derek and Stiles had sex -- glorious, coma-inducing sex -- but he knew hardly anything about the man as a person. His family, the fire, yes, but very little about _him_. Was that the issue? Was he supposed to get intimate with Derek?

The folk tales he had read told of kitsunes becoming women as a kind of game or a trick. They would lure men in, steal from them, and leave them in humiliating positions. Having sex in the privacy of his own loft would hardly do that to Derek. If playing a trick was the intention, then it would take something more; Stiles would have to drawn Derek in, make him fall in love then leave him after stealing his heart since he had literally no possessions other than his car, a bunch of books, and a laptop he barely used and that was, quite frankly, not that advanced. That’s what the kitsune of those stories would do in this situation.

Or course there was the flip side to that coin. The kitsunes that turned into women to become wives, mothers. Good ones, too, according to the stories.

He sighed and sunk deeper into the mattress, imagining if that were the case, imagining Derek waking up happy to have a girly Stiles still in his bed. The smile on the man's face as he made them coffee. The kisses he would place on his shoulder as Stiles pulled his hair up. The warmth between them as Stiles settled on the couch with his laptop, Derek beside him with one of his ancient books. So much intimacy it hurt to even think about, so much trust and love. And maybe children. He remembered everything about his mom before the dementia took hold, every hug, every song and story, each quirk and trick she had to get him to do what he was supposed to do. He could be that mom.

_What the fuck?_

No. _No_ , this was definitely not happening. He was getting out. He was getting out now before he started thinking about what they would name their kids (Talia, Scott, and Claudia) or what kind of dog they would have (Cocker Spaniel). He thanked sweet baby Jesus in his manger that Derek slept so soundly after sex; he didn’t even make a noise when Stiles slid out from under him.

Stiles scrambled into his clothes, stole Derek’s shirt off the couch so he wouldn’t look quite so slutty, and ran outside. He was halfway to freedom when he remembered that his Jeep was still parked at home. He had no way to escape, not without help. Lydia was his first choice of rescue vehicle, but she was likely in no state to leave whichever bed she slept in last night. His dad was definitely out if the question. Scott, then.

“What?” the boy’s voice was muzzy with sleep when he answered.

“Get to Derek’s. Now!”

“Is everyone okay? Was there an attack?”

“Yeah, a panic attack, which I am having _right now!_ So get here fast before I die or he wakes up.”

“Wait, what?”

“Just get here now!” he yelled into the phone, glancing up at the top floor of the building, sure that Derek heard and was on his way down to confront him. What about, he didn’t know, but just the thought of facing him with images of their kids in his head had him freaking out.

He was pacing, heels clasped in his shaking fists like a weapon, shivering against the early morning chill. It wasn’t even dawn yet. He should still be asleep (in Derek’s bed with their Cocker Spaniel, Peter, at their feet and little Claudia, their youngest, nestled between them). He shook his head to push that image away.

Scott was taking too long.

He was giving serious consideration to the idea of stealing Derek’s massive SUV when the battered compact car pulled up. “Dude, what’s wrong?”

“I am freaking out!” Stiled yelled and yanked the door open before the car had even stopped moving, jumping in the passenger seat and waving for him to get them away. “Go. Get me out of here.”

“What happened?" Scott’s eyes raced across his face, his hands, and every inch of visible skin. He had to notice the borrowed shirt and the way Derek’s smell clung to him. “Did he hurt you?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“Okay, then why are you panicking?” he demanded. “And why did I have to get out of bed at four in the morning to help you escape?”

“Drive first. Then questions,” Stiles insisted.

He huffed his annoyance but did as his friend asked, putting the car into gear and pointing it away from the loft. When the building was just a lump of grey in the rearview mirror, he glanced expectantly over at Stiles, “So?”

“We had sex. Derek. Me. Sex. Together.”

“But you’re--”

“I know! Still a girl,” he groaned and punched the dashboard. “Stupid nogitsune.”

“So… what now?”

“I have no idea. I just know that I was laying there and thinking that it might not be so bad staying a girl. If I could keep having sex with Derek… and maybe kids.”

His eyes were huge as he slammed on the breaks and turned to him. “ _Dude._ "

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles agreed. “I named them and everything. We had a dog. I named it Peter just to be a bitch.”

He actually laughed at that, which helped. “Bet Derek loved that.”

“He’s still asleep. I’m running away like a coward.”

Scott frowned. “Not really the best plan. I mean he knows where you live. He can get in without even using the front door and having to go through your dad.”

“Yeah, because he’s Catwoman,” Stiles sighed, batting away the questioning look Scott was sending his way. “This sucks. That was supposed to solve the problem. Why didn’t it work?” It was something of a rhetorical question since no one really knew what had happened or how to fix it, but there was an anxious noise from the driver’s seat; the kind of noise Scott always made when he was preparing to voice something he didn’t really want to say and the person listening probably didn’t want to hear. “Something you want to share with the class, Mr. McCall?”

“Not really,” he admitted and made that little almost sigh again. “I was just thinking. Maybe you don’t have to work so hard to fix it? Don’t get me wrong, I miss you being you. I’m not saying I want you to stay like this, but what if chasing it down isn’t how to change you back? What if it’ll come on its own?”

“Like a side effect,” he concluded. “Wait, so are you saying I should marry Derek, have his little wolf babies, and then I’ll be me again?”

“I have no freaking clue,” he said. “But you would have some really pretty kids.”

“Damn right, we would. We’re freaking supermodel gorgeous Derek and me.” He grinned smugly as he imagined their children’s faces and promptly shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to rub the images away. “Oh, my god! Make it stop!”

Scott just drove, letting Stiles wallow and whine. He had hoped for some brilliant solution or maybe a delayed response to the sex, which would leave him a boy again by the time he got home. Luck, as always, was rarely on his side; they were in front of his house, and he was no closer to being himself again. Adding insult to his considerable injury, the lights were on, which meant his dad was awake and waiting up for him. This night just kept getting better.

“I’m just throwing this out there,” Scott said quietly. “Maybe you should try dating Derek instead of just sleeping with him.”

“My dad would kill him. And me. I’m not sure which of us he would kill more slowly, but I’m sure we’d both die very painful deaths,” he insisted, pointedly ignoring the thrill that his best friend approved of a relationship between Derek and him.

“Whatever, dude, it’s up to you.”

“Thanks for enabling my cowardice.”

“Any time,” he smiled. “Don’t let your dad kill you until you’ve talked to Derek. Waking up alone sucks.”

He stood on the sidewalk until Scott was gone, too scared of the confrontations that he knew would be flying at him inside the next few hours. His dad would yell, take away the Jeep, and probably ground him. The yelling was nothing new, and he wasn’t using the Jeep as long as he was Zelda; it was that last part that had him conflicted. If he were grounded, he couldn’t go out and have sex with Derek again, which would be bad. At the same time, if he were grounded, he couldn’t see Derek and wouldn’t be able to talk about the sex they had already had, which would be good. Yeah, he didn’t know how to feel about a grounding.

“Get your ass in this house! It’s four o’clock in the goddamn morning! Do you know how many officers I’ve had searching for your dead body?” his father shouted out the front door. “One text. Was that too much to ask? One text to tell me you’re alive? Huh? I thought you cared about my heart. Apparently not if you’re trying to give me a heart attack.” He wrapped his arms around Stiles and hugged him tight. “Now where the hell were you? Whose shirt is that? Do I need to arrest anyone?”

“With Derek. Derek’s. No,” he said into his dad’s shoulder. “Sorry, I forgot to text you. I did text Lydia.”

“What the hell good does that do me?” he demanded and shoved him into the house. “No more clubs. Movies are okay. Restaurants are okay. No more clubs. You got that?”

“Yeah, dad.”

He crossed his arms and scowled at the state of his son. “Now tell me about Derek.”

He fidgeted, fingernail worrying the heel of the shoe still clutched in his hand. His eyes darted up to look at his dad’s face, still red with barely restrained anger. He couldn’t hold the man’s irate eye. “What about him?”

“I’m going to kill him,” Noah decided.

“Dad, no.”

“He touched you. I’m killing him.” He reached for the shotgun sitting very prominently on the coffee table.

“Stop! Dad, you can’t kill Derek. He’s a freaking werewolf. Unless you’ve got a stockpile of wolfsbane shells I don’t know about, he’s just going to heal.”

“Please don’t give him ideas.”

They both turned at the request, his father aiming the gun rather lower than he normally would.

Derek took a step back and raised his hands in surrender. “I just came to talk.”

“Sit,” Noah ordered, gesturing with the business end of this gun, and Derek did as he was told, hands still held high. “Stiles, go to your room.”

“No, I’m not going to be treated like a girl just because I look like one. He was trying to help.”

“ _You’re sixteen, Stiles!_ ” he roared. His face was livid, a vein pulsing in his forehead and breath was coming out in great, angry huffs. It was entirely possible he was on his way to a stroke, but Stiles refused to back down.

“Yeah, I am. I am a sixteen-year-old _boy_. Did you forget that part?” he demanded, snatching his lacrosse photo off the table and holding it in his father’s face. “This is me. And I will do whatever I can to go back to being this, Dad.”

“You’re sixteen,” his father said again, deflating as he looked at the smiling boy in the photo.

“Do you really expect me to sit around for a year and a half before I try to fix this?” Stiles asked. “I can’t stay like this. Derek was just doing what I asked. He was just trying to help.”

His face contorted, teeth bared, but his jaw was shaking as he breathed out a resigned sigh, as he seemed to accept the reality of the situation. After all he had learned in recent weeks, he had to know the law didn’t always apply, that the rules needed bending where the supernatural came into play. “Why _him?_ ”

“I trust him.”

“Of all the people to have as your first,” he muttered.

“Technically, Malia was my first,” he replied shrinking away from the glares both Derek and his father were sending him. “Yeah, at Eichen House.”

“Are you kidding me? I was going out of my mind, crying my way down to a very expensive specialist because I thought my son was _dying_ , and you were in there having sex? You are grounded. No car. No phone. Computer only in the living room and only while I’m home. Do you understand me?”

“Dad, isn’t it a little late to--”

“Room. Go. Now.”

“Dad--”

“Go, Stiles. Derek and I have some things to discuss.” He set the shotgun on his shoulder as he turned his sights on the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After months of hiatus, I'm back wanting to write again. I have a few chapters of a time-travelling Stiles story that I'd like to see finished. Let me know if you're interested ~~or~~ _and_ stop by my [tumblr](http://iamtarasoleil.tumblr.com/) to see snippets as I get this ball rolling again.


	10. Misconception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some feelings aren't so much laid out gently as they are thrown with great force.

10: Misconception

  
There was no winning an argument when his father took that tone, and Stiles knew it. He had no choice but to go to his room, change into something more substantial, pace, fret, and occasionally stick his head out the door in a vain attempt to catch some hint of what was happening in the living room. Forty minutes of agita gnawing at his gut and he hadn’t managed to hear a single word of what had to be a very heated discussion with no small number of threats on Derek’s life and reproductive organs.

In that time, he also hadn’t heard any gunshots, which he took as promising.

It was impossible for him not to be aware of how odd this was, of how odd all of this was. Not just his father and Derek having a ‘talk’ about him. His entire life was odd, bizarre, wrong beyond measure. If there was an Olympic medal for having the most disturbing adolescence in the world, Stiles was pretty sure he would have be a serious contender for at least the silver. Maybe he should have let Peter bite him. The nogitsune couldn’t have possessed him if he had been a werewolf; he would actually be good at lacrosse; maybe it would have made him less hyper.

“What’s that face for?”

“Just wondering if getting The Bite would cure ADHD,” he admitted in a quiet, contemplative voice, looking up at the man leaning against his bedroom wall. “It cured Scott’s asthma and Erica’s epilepsy, right?”

Derek made no reply.

“So my dad didn’t kill you.”

“He threatened to,” he admitted. “Definitely tried to glare me to death. I think he’s actually the one with patent pending Murder Eyes.”

He snorted, knowing exactly which look his father had sent Derek’s way. “Banned you from the house, too.”

“How did you guess?”

“Welcome and invited guests usually come in that way--” he pointed to the closed bedroom door. “Creepy stalkers with Murder Eyes -- patent pending -- come in through the window.”

Derek lowered himself onto the bed beside him. “Yeah, banned for life or at least until you’re a consenting adult according to state law.”

“That’s almost a year and a half,” Stiles groaned. “Does he seriously expect me to be _this_ for a year and a half?”

“I think,” he paused, shoulders dropping ever so slightly and possibly in defeat, “he feels helpless. The law is what he knows.”

“You need to stop being so damn understanding. It’s unnatural,” he complained, imagining that look on his face, that same dejected curve of his spine after they watched Talia get picked up for her first date. Derek looked like his entire world was slipping away.

The man's brows pulled together. “What are you thinking right now?”

“What?” Stiles hurled himself to his feet, putting some distance between them. “Nothing. Just thoughts. Random, unimportant thoughts.”

“If they aren’t important, then you can tell me.”

“No, I really can’t. They’re so unimportant I already forgot what they were. Poof. Gone. Like Keyser Söze.”

Derek studied him, his pacing feet, his fidgeting hands, his panicked breathing. It was so obvious that he was lying. The man needed none of his wolf powers to see that. “Keyser Söze didn’t just disappear. He hid in plain sight. So what are you trying to hide, Stiles?”

“Nothing,” he huffed. “Why are you here anyway? This would have gone a lot smoother if you’d stayed in a coma back at your place.”

“I caught a scent.” It was a simple enough sentence, but the way he said it implied that it was one of tremendous importance. “It confused me. I had to make sure you were all right.”

“What smell? My disappointment that I was still a girl, maybe?”

“Disappointment doesn’t really give off a chemosignal. Anxiety does, but I’m used to smelling that from you. This was different.” He stood, moving closer, towering over him without even trying. “It was-- Well, it was maternal.”

“Maternity has a smell?” he gaped. “Shit, did you get me pregnant?”

“Yes, it does, and I very much doubt it. But I didn't say _maternity_. I said _maternal_. I usually only smell it when women look at infants. It’s involuntary, and it was all over your side of the bed. I came to find out why.” He kept inching closer, forcing Stiles back toward the wall, crowding him, caging him.

He swallowed hard, staring up at the man. “There was this really cute puppy on Instagram.”

“Your phone was on the couch. Try again.”

“I had a dream about a ferret.”

“A ferret? Really?”

“Ferrets are fucking adorable. Shut up.”

“Yeah, they’re adorable, but not enough to have the bed reeking like a maternity ward observation window.”

“Okay, fine. I woke up and was still like this, and I thought that maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. That maybe, if you wanted, we could keep having sex and have some kids because they’d be beautiful. And a Cocker Spaniel -- I named it Peter, by the way -- and it would just be nice. Then I freaked out because, like my dad said, I’m only sixteen. Kids? So not in the picture.”

“Yeah, much too soon,” he agreed, fingers sliding up his arms. “And we’d have an Irish Setter.”

The feel of the man’s fingertips on his skin was distracting enough that he didn’t quite catch what he said. “What?”

“An Irish Setter, but you can still name it Peter. He would hate that.” Derek smiled.

“Shit, are you… what the hell is happening right now?”

“I’m apparently failing to make you fall in love with me,” he sighed and took a step back. He looked smaller, as if his failure deflated him somehow.

“Love? What the fuck are you talking about? We had sex. One time. That’s--” His mouth snapped shut when he saw the pained look that flit across the man’s face. “I am so confused right now.”

Derek shook his head and moved toward the window. “I should go.”

“No, you should explain yourself. What the hell is going on here?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh, fuck that noise. If I had to tell you about my weird maternal turn, then you need to tell me about whatever I did to put that look on your face. You look like I kicked Peter. Peter the imaginary dog, not Peter your uncle. Obviously.” He grabbed Derek’s arm and pulled him back toward the bed. “Sit. Talk.”

“No. I don’t think it’ll do any good.”

“Yeah, but we know you’re stupid. Pretty, but stupid.”

Derek did that thing with his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“You make bad choices. Ignore very important facts. Jump into situations and fights and don’t care if you survive. I think you need to see a counselor, actually. It seems like you have survivor’s remorse and are trying to commit suicide by proxy. Just saying.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m awesome. A girl, yes, but awesome.”

“You are willfully ignorant,” he spat. “Intentionally oblivious to what’s right in front of you.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Stiles stared down at the man, watching as he seemed to curl defensively in on himself. He had never seen Derek act like this. It was weird. It was weird and unnerving and a little bit frightening. “Okay, I’m sorry, but how can I intentionally ignore something I can’t even see? Stop mixing metaphors. Say what you fucking mean!”

“It wasn’t just sex!” Derek shouted. As soon as the words left his mouth, his eyes grew huge, terrified. Derek looked so scared, more than Stiles had ever seen him look.

“Not just sex?” he parroted quietly.

As Derek sat on his bed breathing hard and avoiding his eye, Stiles thought back. Not to last night, but to Eichen House, to Malia; what they had was ‘just sex’. Cold, mechanical. It was the kind of act that read like assembly instructions: insert Part A into Slot B; repeat. That was not what he and Derek had done. They hadn’t fucked either. That was equally as mechanical as ‘just sex’ but with more enthusiasm. While there had certainly been enthusiasm last night, what they had done was far from cold or mechanical. Derek had been soft, slow, tender even. Derek had…

“Holy shit,” he breathed. “We made love, didn’t we?”

“If you have to ask, then I clearly didn’t do it right,” he muttered darkly.

“Oh, shut up. I’m sixteen. I’ve had sex all of once before last night. I’ve never had a girlfriend. The only romantic love I’ve ever felt was a single-sided obsession with Lydia. My expertise is somewhat lacking, so, yeah, I missed the clues. Although, if your idea of romancing me is stalking school grounds and cockblocking my dates, then your game needs some serious work.”

Derek glared at him. “Why do I even like you?”

“Damned if I know. I’m annoying as hell.” He threw his arms out in an exaggerated shrug. “So is this where you kiss me? You didn’t kiss me last night. I kind of took that as a sign of you not liking me.”

“I didn't think you'd want me to.”

“Just kiss me, asshole.”

Derek pushed himself to his feet, shoulders still sloped downward. When he approached, it wasn’t with the confident strut he had walked with just minutes earlier. His movements were cautious. It was moments like this that Stiles could easily see the canine in him; ears down, tail between his legs, that’s what he would see if the man were a wolf. He was still scared.

“I’m not going to bite you,” he insisted and moved to meet Derek halfway, wrapping his arms around his neck to pull him nearer, standing on his toes to close the gap that much quicker.

Kissing Derek was like anything else involving that man: contradictory. He looked the big, bad werewolf, but deep down he was more scared and lost than any of them. He played the leader, but really he needed the most guidance. He kiss was tender, yet his beard scraped like a motherfucker. It shouldn’t feel good, but the burn of it against his skin kind of turned him on. His lips were pretty nice, too, soft and just demanding enough. This was kissing that he could get used to. He was immensely thankful the illusion hadn’t broken after they had sex, or Stiles would never have gotten to taste this good a kiss.

At the thought, his stomach dropped. Derek wouldn’t want to do this when he was himself again. Derek would go back to Murder Eyes, condescending eyebrows, and threatening to slap him without ever actually voicing the words. The man liked girly Stiles not actual Stiles. That should thrill him because it meant his mission had been accomplished; the vixen had ensnared her man. Just like the sex, however, the revelation that Derek liked him hadn’t changed a thing.

The man broke from him, fingertips caressing his face as he studied him. “What is it?”

Stiles shook his head. He didn’t have words to explain how disappointed and elated he was at the prospect of staying like this, of being stuck as a girl, of being able to stay with Derek. If it meant getting to be with him, Stiles thought he might be able to tolerate being a girl for the rest of his life. He liked Derek, maybe even kind of loved him a little bit.

Stiles pulled him closer, trying to say with his mouth what he couldn’t with words, holding the man's body against his, chests and stomachs and hips flush against each other. He felt the hardening line of the man’s cock against his own and rocked into it, moaning into the kiss.

Derek pulled away from his mouth. “Stiles.”

“No. More kissing,” he whispered and tried to pull him in for another.

“Stiles.” One condescending eyebrow rose pointedly. Stiles stared, lost as to what he was trying to communicate. Then all at once, he realized that he was staring at Derek’s eyes; that his eyes and Derek’s eyes were level and that he wasn’t standing on tiptoe to make it happen; that his chest and stomach were pressed tight against Derek’s without a pair of double-Ds getting in the way.

“Yes!” Stiles shouted, throwing his arms up in victory. “You are my hero! That’s it. You are officially Superman. We’re starting our own Justice League.” He threw the door open and raced down the hall. “Dad! _Dad_!”

“What? What is it? Are you all--” His eyes grew huge as he saw his son. “Damn, I almost forgot what you looked like. Come here.” He wrapped Stiles in a hug so tight he literally heard his spine crack. “You’re still grounded.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.”

“Glad to have you back, son. I did not enjoy worrying about your virtue,” he admitted. “Now go to your room.”

He grinned and hurried to wrap Derek in the tightest, most grateful hug he could manage. And maybe, if he was still interested, kiss him. His smile dropped as he skid to a stop in the doorway. The room was empty, window open. Derek wasn’t interested.

“Well, fuck you very much,” he muttered and fell onto his bed, eyes damp and heart heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you happen to like Supernatural? I made a fluffy little Destiel one-shot, if you do... go check it out. :)


	11. Better Off Zelda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone is smarter than Stiles. Except Derek.

11: Better Off Zelda  
  
Stiles hugged the love of his life, felt the hard body, ran his palm lovingly over its side.

“I missed you so much,” he sighed.

“Dude, if you try to kiss that thing, I’m finding a new best friend,” Scott informed him.

“You’re just jealous that my Jeep is way cooler than your bike. Admit it,” Stiles insisted, giving the side panel a gentle pat. God, he had missed being independent, being mobile, being _himself_. He had known things were different from when he was a guy. He had known he missed being himself, but he hadn’t realized the degree to which he had missed it. That new, temporary normal had been so all-consuming, it had gotten to the point he had nearly forgotten what being Stiles was even like. It was like trying to see the entirety of a cyclone when standing in the eye; it was impossible to pinpoint all the million things that had been stripped from him. His Jeep, though, that had been one very obvious thing he had known was missing.

“Yep, totally cooler. Just like Zelda was cooler than you,” his friend scoffed.

“You try it for two weeks, then tell me that.”

“Nothing good came out of it? Really?” he questioned.

Stiles thought a moment. He wanted to say his improved relationship with Derek made it all worth it, but that clearly would have been a lie. The man vanished Saturday night without a word, obviously disappointed by the return of the boy when it was the girl he wanted. “I finally got to see the girls locker room. Although, it’s really not that different. That was kind of a disappointment. So, no, nothing good. At all. End of discussion.”

“Dude,” Scott said, voice taking on a depth he only used when deathly serious. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Nope. Completely and willfully ignorant over here. Anything to do with tall, dark, handsome werewolves is completely outside my knowledge or understanding.”

“Stiles, you slept with him. That’s a big deal. You need to talk to him.”

“And I did. When he was super creepy and climbed in through my bedroom window. We talked, I turned back, he left. He’s not interested in _me_. He was interested in _her_. Now that I’m not her, there’s no chance of an _us_.”

The alpha was quiet for a long moment. Stiles was always uncomfortable when people were quiet around him; it made him wonder what they were thinking -- what they were thinking about him, specifically. At least Scott was the sort to voice his thoughts once he put them in order. “Did you want there to be an ‘us’ with you and Derek?”

“No! Maybe. I don’t know. It was all really weird and confusing. I don’t know which feelings are hers and which are mine,” he admitted.

“Dude. She was you. _All_ those feelings are yours.”

“Uh, _no_. I did not want to jump Derek’s bones before all that happened. Did I think he was attractive? Yes, because I’m not blind. I know man-pretty when I see it. Which, by the way, doesn’t make me gay. It makes me observant.”

He had thought about all this at great length while being unable to sleep the previous night, his mind working tirelessly, refusing to turn off until he had an answer because that desire for Derek hadn’t gone away with the breasts and the vagina. He stared at a photo of Lydia for an hour willing his dick to respond, but regardless of the scenario he imagined, no matter how much nudity they involved, he couldn’t force the old feelings back into place. He didn’t like Lydia anymore. Not like he used to. He liked Derek. He maybe kind of loved Derek. A little bit. The man was still an asshole. A soft-centered, lost, scared little puppy of an asshole with a gloriously talented mouth and abs that he desperately wanted to lick.

“Stiles?”

“Huh? What?”

“You kind of zoned out for a second there,” Scott said. “You okay? Is this some weird side effect?”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About Derek?”

He glowered at him. “No.”

“I know you’re lying. You’re heartbeat and your pants tell me so.”

“No wolf powers. We had a deal.” He tugged at the crotch of his jeans, repositioning himself and willing his boner away. Stupid Derek. The man ruined him. No, it was the damned nogitsune that ruined him. Hindsight, as the platitude said, was twenty-twenty. It had taken him until about three in the morning to finally realize that this had been the nogitsune’s plan all along, that revenge had never been on Derek. Destroying Stiles had always been its goal. He had been turned into a girl. A condition that could only be cured when he fell hopelessly (maybe, just a little bit) in love with a man who would have zero interest in him once he was boy again, so Siles would have no chance of ever being with the guy he (maybe, just a little bit) loved.

Stiles had been tricked and humiliated and robbed of his fucking heart, just like the damned stories had read would happen.

“Come on, let’s get to school,” Scott said, patting him on the back before moving to the passenger side of the Jeep.

They hadn’t really discussed it, but he understood that Scott wanted to stick close in case something else went wrong with him. So he drove them both to school, diligently ignoring Scott’s worried face pointing in his direction as he studied his friend for side effects or aftershocks. He parked in his usual spot and cringed at the hateful glares being directed his way.

Scott’s eyebrows shot up as he noticed them, too. “What’s wrong with everybody?”

He shrugged. “If I’m back, they know Zelda’s gone. I don’t know if you noticed, but that cousin of mine was pretty attractive.”

“I tried not to.”

“Dude, you totally had the hots for Zelda,” he laughed only to have Scott punch him in the arm and send him staggering sideways into the handrail. “No wolf powers!”

He saw the disappointment and anger on every male face he passed but managed to ignore it. He had spent rather a lot of time over the past year-and-a-half dealing with far more threatening Murder Eyes than theirs. Now if one of these scrawny high school boys threatened to rip his throat out with their teeth, then he might consider quaking in his Nikes. But he doubted it.

“I have to go hand in all my work. See you in class,” he told Scott and made his way toward the History wing. More than the leers, the breasts, or his lack of autonomous movement, that had been the worst part about being a girl, having to do two sets of work -- one for Zelda and one for himself. Two weeks of class assignments, homework, and essays times two equaled way too much work for one already stressed Stiles. The time spent with Lydia and on those failed dates had really been a reprieve from it all, something Derek clearly hadn’t understood when he continued to ruin each and every single one of those dates. At the thought, he looked out the window, convinced he would see Derek there glaring at him from the edge of the parking lot. He didn’t.

After so many days of the man appearing at random in the halls and on school grounds, exuding sullen menace and innate sex appeal, his absence was something noteworthy. Stiles caught himself looking out every window and craning his neck to look down every corridor. He spent half of second period staring out the window, which was when he realized that he wasn’t preparing to glare at Derek for stalking him but that he actually was hoping to catch a glimpse of him again. He missed seeing him.

Stiles groaned and dropped into his seat, letting his head fall to the desk with a hard thud.

“Stilinski!”

“Yeah, Coach!” he said, sitting upright, immediately leaning away from the wide, crazy eyes of the man pushing his face far too close for comfort.

“Where’s that cousin of yours?” the man asked. “Everything all right?”

“Zelda? Yeah, no. Fine. She just, you know, went home. To Hill Valley. Where she’s from,” he said, glancing at Scott for both confirmation of the story and maybe some help.

“Yeah, we drove her home yesterday,” Scott agreed.

“Oh, good. Glad everything’s all right,” Coach said, eyeing Stiles as he walked away.

Stiles just prayed this didn’t turn into some weird _Better Off Dead_ moment with his teacher making some comment on how hot he thought Zelda was; that would have been a level of disturbing that even he couldn’t have dealt with.

Coach, thank the lord above, didn’t say a word about how attractive Stiles was as a girl. Far too many others seemed to think it was acceptable to say it, though. Those guys he had gone on dates with were proving Stiles’s opinion of them unfortunately accurate, each one playing a game of one-upmanship with how far they’d gotten with the girl. Dustin claimed to have gotten to third base; Jeff, asshole that he was, insisted they’d done it behind the bleachers; Movie Boy, whose name Stiles still couldn’t even remember, claimed that she was totally about to go down on him in the movie theater before her crazy cousin Miguel showed up and threatened to kill him. By the end of his first day back, Stiles was ready to transfer schools or possibly scrape every last molecule of residual evil the Void had left after possessing him to revenge himself on the crass, lying douchebags.

“You have Murder Eyes,” Lydia informed him, holding up her compact for him to see his reflection.

“Those aren’t Murder Eyes,” he said darkly.

“Yeah, those are totally Murder Eyes,” Scott agreed.

“I’ve seen Murder Eyes a thousand times from Derek. I know Murder Eyes when I see them.”

“If you’re talking about his socially awkward bedroom eyes, then, yeah, you’ve seen them a thousand times,” Lydia said, taking back her mirror and snapping it shut like hers was the final word.

“What the hell are you talking about? He’s been throwing that same look at me since we met,” he insisted.

“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” she said, smug smile taking over the full lips Stiles no longer wanted to kiss. “I’m just saying they need a different name.”

“Seriously? Scott, please correct her,” he scoffed.

“Can’t. She’s totally right,” his friend insisted. “Derek’s into you.”

“What have you two been smoking? And where can I get some?”

Scott shifted uncomfortably, half-swallowing an almost sigh before saying, “Didn’t you see the way he reacted when you showed up at his loft as a girl?”

“Yeah, he was pissed.”

“Exactly. Pissed I’d brought my best friend’s new girlfriend there to rub it in his face,” he insisted. “He freaking tried to scare you off.”

“That part I remember,” he admitted. “But girlfriend?”

Scott groaned and raked a hand through his hair with a nervous energy he rarely displayed. “Dude, he accused girl-you of sleeping with guy-you, said you reeked like him. That clearly pissed him off.”

Stiles scowled. His eyes darted between the smirking strawberry blonde and awkward alpha, hating them for daring to suggest there might be hope for him and Derek being a thing. He wanted them to be a thing, but it was clearly never going to happen. “Bullshit.”

“Why don’t you go talk to him and find out?” Lydia suggested.

“Fine. I will. And I’ll be back here tomorrow with an ‘I told you so’ so deeply smug you will never question my wisdom again,” he spat, swallowing down the words that he wanted to add, that he would also be carrying with him the pieces of his shattered heart.

It was a bad idea. More than that, it was a pointless trip. Derek wouldn’t want him. He’d made that obvious when he left Stiles’s room without even saying ‘goodbye’. Still, he went, because he wanted to see him again, wanted to be near him at least one more time. The steel door seemed a greater barrier than it ever had before, locking him out from what he wanted most. Panic was building. He was psyching himself out. Before he could chicken out and run away, he lifted his hand and knocked. Moments ticked past before there was any sound, then the latch shifted and the door rolled open.

“Well, hello, Stiles.”

“Ugh, why are you here?” he demanded. The sight of Peter always made him sick. Though he could now bask in the secret, sadistic joy of having an imaginary Irish Setter named after him.

“This is where my favorite nephew lives. Why wouldn’t I want to spend time here?” he questioned, mouth tipping up into a knowing smile. “You, however, don’t really have a reason, do you?”

“To talk to the guy that actually owns the place,” he offered. “Where’s Derek?”

“Away,” he answered. He offered a vague gesture of his hand. “I would invite you in, but Derek seems to have left the place in a bit of a state.”

“What?” Stiles stood taller to look over his shoulder, seeing the couch on its side, books, glass, and pieces of that sad, pointless laptop scattered across the floor. “What the hell?”

Peter put up no resistance when he pushed past him, gawking at the mess. Over the past year and a half, Stiles had witnessed enough fights to recognize their aftermath, and this had not been a fight between two people. Derek had done this all on his own.

“Yes,” the man’s uncle sighed, seemingly with concern, “he never did handle losing love well. At least you made it out better than poor Paige.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Nothing. He didn’t have to. Not with Derek having his little hissy fit and this place stinking of you and sex. And femininity. I would liked to have seen you as a girl. I bet you were adorable.” He tilted his head to the side, considering the boy before him. “You might have even looked a little like her.”

“Who?”

“Paige. It’s no wonder he took to you.”

Of all the creepy, insulting things that might have crawled from his mouth, that, somehow, was the most vile. As if he had just been playing on Derek’s old pains to get what he wanted. It wasn’t his fault if he looked like some girl he had only ever heard about once. Derek knew who he really was. It wasn’t as if Stiles intentionally manipulated the man, if he had even done so at all.

During free period the next day, he hunted the library for yearbooks, scouring the pages and finding her sophomore photo smiling out at him. Warm brown eyes. Long brown hair. Pale skin and moles. Shit, they did look alike.

“Look. Look at this,” he said, pushing the photograph at Scott.

“Was that her? The girl Derek… you know?”

“Yeah. And we’re like freaking twins.”

He studied the photo then Stiles. “No. Not really.”

His hands flew with his agitation. “Are you kidding me?”

Lydia leaned over his shoulder. “No, Scott’s right. Passing resemblance at best. Really, this only proves Derek has a type, and you’re it.”

He fell into a seat, slouching down as far as his spine would allow and hating everything about his life. Why couldn’t he have stayed a girl? Things were infinitely more complicated and awkward, but at least he could have had Derek. Now, he just had a pain in his chest that wouldn’t go away and what would likely become a perpetual unrelieved desire.


	12. Search for Superman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things discussed are not what Stiles had thought they were.

12: Search for Superman  
  
Derek was there. Only briefly, but Stiles was sure it was him. He tried to turn in his seat to get a better view, but he was driving and there were too many cars on the road to be able to make an illegal U-turn. That was Tuesday and the first of many sightings. It was strange seeing Derek around town. Their first encounter in the woods and all the time the man spent living in the burnt shell of his childhood home had left Stiles with the impression that the man shied away from human contact. Clearly, that wasn’t the case as Stiles saw him nearly every time he set foot outside.

This wasn’t like when he was Zelda and Derek would stalk his every move at school and on dates. He wasn’t standing menacingly in the distance. He was just walking to his car or into a store. He was being a normal, functioning adult. It was weird.

Stiles almost didn’t like it. At least when the man was holed up in the middle of the forest or in the sad, hollow loft being a recluse, he could justify the lack of communication as just part of Derek’s creepy, loner nature. But Derek wasn’t being a weird loner anymore, so the fact that Stiles couldn’t get in contact with him hurt. It meant that Derek was intentionally avoiding him.

“I’m poison. That’s what I am,” he declared. “Heather got sacrificed. Malia nearly had holes drilled in her head. Derek…”

“Went grocery shopping?” Scott offered, sounding far too sarcastic for how dire this situation was.

“It represents a change in character,” Stiles insisted. “He went from being all Man Alone to Normal Dude. It’s weird is all I’m saying.”

“I’m sure he went to the store for groceries before. He has to eat.”

“Probably takes a lot of protein to fuel those muscles,” he agreed, voice distant as he remembered just how hard and defined the man’s abs really were.

“Dude!”

“What?”

“We talked about this. It’s a rule and everything,” Scott insisted.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking about it, which means I have to smell it. I do not need to know how hot you are for Derek. Ever.” He pulled a face and shuddered.

Stiles managed to avoid pointing out all the times he had felt the need to share how ‘good’ things were with Allison. Instead, he threw a wad of notebook paper at his head. “Did you text him?”

“Yeah, he said he was busy.”

“Busy? What the hell does that even mean? He just sits around reading all day,” he complained. “Did you ask for clarification? What’s he busy doing?”

Scott rolled his eyes. “He wouldn’t say.”

Stiles dropped his chin onto his hands and considered his options. Derek wasn’t answering his or Scott’s texts. He hadn’t been home the five times Stiles had gone to the loft. He had even thought to bring Scott along to listen for heartbeats. Unless Scott had lied, then the man was not spending his time moping in his sad, empty apartment. He was out, living and shopping like a normal person. So, Stiles reasoned, he could either camp out at the loft until the man came home or he could get on with his own life like Derek was apparently doing. Alone. Without the man he was pretty sure he loved (more than just a little bit).

“Maybe he got a job,” Kira suggested. At his incredulous look, she insisted, “Well, it makes sense, right? He’s not there when you go see him, but it’s not like he moved. Maybe he’s busy doing, you know, work things.”

Stiles snorted. “Work. The only thing that man’s qualified to do for a living is strip or intimidate people.”

It took a moment for his own words to process. Once they did, he shot to his feet. “Son of a bitch! That bastard!”

He tore across school grounds toward his Jeep, leaping into the driver’s seat and cursing until the engine decided to turn. The tires squealed in his eagerness to escape the lot, planting two thick, dark lines of rubber on the faded asphalt. He sped through town, barely scraping through two yellow lights, and slamming the breaks on when he tore into a parking space outside the station. That sneaky old bastard. He had ‘things to discuss’ with Derek, that’s what he had said. Stiles assumed he had intended to threaten his life or his dick, but his father had other plans for the man. As he stalked past the front desk and caught an eyeful of Derek Hale in khaki polyester, he knew he was right. It had been a fucking recruiting speech.

“You.”

Derek looked up, eyes huge. “Shit.”

“Not you,” he said, pushing past him. “ _You_.”

“Stiles, you should be in school,” his father sighed.

“Lunch and free period. I have permission to leave school grounds,” he said baldly. “Now what the hell is that?” 

The man followed his accusing finger until his eyes settled on Derek. “That would be my newest patrol officer. He’s pretty good, but I’m still not quite sold on him yet. History of violence and questionable decisions.”

“When were you going to tell me?” he demanded.

“What goes on at this station isn’t any of your business, son,” the Sheriff said, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest. “You can steal all the police radios you want, but that doesn’t give you a lick of authority in my station.”

“You know he’s my-- That I kind of-- Dammit, you should have told me!” he whined, turning at glaring at Derek. “You definitely should have said something.”

“He can’t,” his father said, voice harder than he’d ever heard it. “It’s part of his probation. No contact with you without adult supervision or the presence of a supernatural disaster. If he disobeys that mandate, he’s fired and I’m pressing charges.”

Stiles couldn’t keep his mouth from falling open. “Adult supervision? I’m not a freaking Hasbro toy some toddler might choke on.”

“No, you’re a couple of idiots in love. I wouldn’t trust you two not to touch each other if my life depended on it.”

At his words, he saw a flush creep up Derek’s neck and hope stirred hatefully in his chest that maybe there was the chance of them being a thing. “Well, you’re here to supervise now. Can I talk to him?”

“Blinds and door open. No touching,” he ordered and stepped through the doorway with a warning glance at each of them. He stayed just outside his office, face impassive, looking every inch the man from his election posters. Stiles watched him a moment, wishing they could have more privacy because he knew this was going to be awkward and painful. He was getting ready to hand his heart to someone that likely didn’t want it. Shifting nervously on his feet, he watched Derek do the same.

“So,” he said. His voice was barely above a whisper, but Derek still flinched as if he had shouted at him.

He spoke in an equally hushed tone. “So?”

“We made love,” Stiles said. “I liked it.”

“Me, too.”

“I’d like to do it again. Obviously, it would be a little different what with me not having a vagina anymore, so I’m not really sure how that would work position wise. How do people decide who bottoms? Is it like a coin toss thing?” he muttered, voice trailing off as he tried to sort it out.

“Stiles, it doesn’t matter. I promised,” Derek insisted.

Stiles made plain his thoughts on that statement with an ugly snort.

“Not just about talking to you,” he said. “I’m taking this job seriously. I swore to uphold the law. All laws, even the ones that I wish I could bend.”

No sarcastic comment came to him, no hateful words that dredged up reminders of the people he had killed, the numerous laws he had already broken. Because he had heard it. He had heard not just what Derek said but what he meant. He knew which law the man wanted to bend, the one that kept him from being with Stiles. He wanted them to be a thing, too.

“So what’s your plan then, Derek?” he asked, moving closer and watching the panic build in his eyes.

“To do my job.”

“Uh, huh. And then?”

“Make the Sheriff like me.”

“Always good when the boss likes you,” he agreed, slipping closer still.

“Maybe get a promotion.” He swallowed thickly.

“I like a man with ambition. Shows he’s thinking about the future.”

Derek backed into the desk, but Stiles kept approaching. “What are you doing?”

“Testing a hypothesis.” He smiled and moved in as close as he could without actually touching the man, watching as his breath came fast and hard, as his green eyes were overtaken by his pupils, as his face flushed, and his pants grew a bit too snug. “Do you want to know my hypothesis?”

Derek offered a mute nod, eyes focused on his mouth.

“I propose that the nogitsune meant to revenge itself on me by making me fall for someone I could never have. Someone too old for me, too dangerous, and definitely too good looking. It knew that a guy like that would never like me, and I’d spend the rest of my life miserable,” he paused long enough for Derek to grasp his words, to let the man’s eyes dart up to his. “I also propose that the nogitsune was stupid as fuck because it didn’t even bother thinking about that guy’s feelings. It never in all its thousand years dreamed that a man that gorgeous might actually fall for me, too; might already have fallen for me before it all started, that maybe the girly window dressing would actually make it easier to finally make a move. Girl or boy, I’m still me, after all. So, what do you think of that hypothesis?”

“I… I don’t really see how you’re going to test it.”

Stiles let a wicked grin pull across his mouth as his fingers slid up his thigh, knowing his body blocked his father's view of that sly movement. “Patiently. It’s not something I’m very good at, so it’ll be a new experience.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Bitch, I am going to make you pine so hard. You’re going to dream about me every night all alone in your bed, wishing your hand was mine, remembering how I tasted, counting the days until you’re able to touch me again.” He watched as the man fought to control himself, eyes glowing and claws gouging the underside of the desk. “That is _my_ plan for the future.”

“You are such an asshole.”

“But you like me.”

“I fucking love you,” Derek breathed. “Still can’t figure out why.”

“Damned if I know.” He smirked and stepped away before his father saw him tormenting his new officer. This plan hinged entirely on his dad liking Derek. If they both played it right, his dad would have no objections by the time his eighteenth birthday rolled around.

As if reading his thoughts, Derek asked, “How long do I have to wait?”

“Fifteen months.”

“Too long,” he groaned.

“Well, there are ways around it. I could, for example, figure out how to loop the surveillance footage of my bedroom so my dad doesn’t realize there’s anyone in there with me,” he suggested coyly, smiling as Derek’s patent-pending Socially Awkward Bedroom Eyes stared at him. “That plan has the major drawback of getting you jail time if we got caught, though.”

“It has the major benefit of letting me wrap my mouth around your cock,” Derek hissed, and Stiles was pretty sure he died. Right then. Right there. Derek killed him.

“Oh, fuck, I’ll pay Danny all the money I have to make this happen,” he declared. “You, don’t get killed or fired.”

“I won’t get killed, but I can’t make any promises about losing the job. Your father kind of hates me,” he admitted. “When will I know it's safe to see you?”

“Come on, Superman. You know how Batman rolls.”

“Oh, god, you own a Bat Signal, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he grinned. “Can I just say how hot it makes me that you know about the Bat Signal?” He leaned in to kiss him.

“Stiles! No touching!” his father shouted.

“I didn’t touch him!” Derek insisted, hands held high.

“Damn shame I can’t arrest people for intent,” he complained. “Stiles, are you sure it has to be him? Can’t you find someone else?”

“Nope. Only Derek,” he declared, confidence faltering as he looked at the man. “Just for confirmation: Are you sure you weren’t just into my dangerous curves?”

Derek’s smile was minuscule, but it was there. “I don’t know. Maybe you only like me because of my divine moves.”

“Oh, Jesus, no wonder you two like each other,” Stilinski groaned. “Stiles, just go. Get out before I arrest you for being a menace to society. Hale, get back to work.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek said and skirted around Stiles to reach the door.

Yeah, there was officially nothing the man couldn’t make look sexy. Even that god awful uniform looked good on him.  Stiles watched him move around the desks; the perfect backside filling out the pressed polyester. The man had some dangerous curves of his own, ones Stiles desperately wanted to drive across the dirty sheets of his bed. He wasn’t sure how long it would take to hack the security system, but he would make it happen.

Derek was absolutely worth the risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end. What did you think?
> 
> I still have nothing close enough to finished to start posting, but here's hoping I'll get my head out of my ass and get back to work soon. You can always follow me on [Tumblr](http://iamtarasoleil.tumblr.com/) to see what I'm fangirling, working on, and/or writing.


End file.
